


Don’t Want The Job Of Being (SHIELD’s Phil Coulson Translator)

by mybrotherharry



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Barebacking, Bondage, Comeplay, D/s play, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, I don't buy that between the two of them clint is the one with the issues, Insecurity, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Phil is a fucking mess TM, Pining, Possessiveness, Romance, so many issues, so much fluff I can't even, some smut, the following tags in one particular chapter:, there is definitely a porn in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:41:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 30,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26929810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybrotherharry/pseuds/mybrotherharry
Summary: Clint Barton’s life is a romcom.It’s got your average commitment phobic love interest, the will-they-won’t-they thing, the nerdy best friend with the snarky commentary who is gone for the dumb blonde jock, and of course, the brooding assassin who is in it just for Clint’s buns (not like that, Tony.)Roll opening credits.Alternately:the worst kept secret at SHIELD is that Phil and Clint are dating. The best kept secret at SHIELD? ThatPhil’sthe one with the issues.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, Phil Coulson/OC (temporary), Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, phlint endgame
Comments: 91
Kudos: 276





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There's this other fic I am supposed to be writing, so obviously my brain has decided to write and publish this multi chapter mammoth.
> 
> There is explicit porn in one standalone chapter. I shall warn at the beginning of that chapter, and you can skip it if you don't wanna read it. It won't have any bearing on the plot.

When Clint signed up to be a super secret ninja agent for this alphabet soup organization, he wasn’t taking his only way out. 

Sure, Tasha had brought him in, but he wasn’t desperate. He had a ticket out of dodge, about seventeen thousand dollars stashed in a couple of different places outside the country, and a frankly lovely vacation spot picked out. He’d earned the break. He deserved a fucking vacation. 

But there had been something about the faint amusement on the SHIELD agent’s deceptively blank face that had read to Clint like a challenge. Clint is  _ so very bad _ at resisting those. 

The agent - Phil Coulson - had blue eyes, that said “ _ I doubt you are worth my time _ ”, while his smirk said, “ _ I can’t wait to see you prove me wrong _ .” 

Phil Coulson said neither of those things out loud, but Clint heard him anyway.

*

The first two months are incredible.

They give him a bow that nearly snaps in two when he draws to full length. Coulson smirks his  _ not-a-smile _ and walks off, presumably to tear the weapons tech at R&D a new one. 

There is a special kind of joy, Clint has noted, in watching Coulson yell at other people. For one, it’s because Coulson doesn’t yell at all. He looks at the mark, raises the mighty Eyebrows of Disappointment TM , and shoots the trademark  _ I cannot believe how stupid you are  _ glare for a few seconds; a period which is usually sufficient to make the target of his stare scurry off to do better and promise eternal devotion to Phil Coulson.

It’s the hottest thing Clint’s ever seen. 

He is also such a bastard. He is entirely unimpressed by Clint.

He sees Clint make impossible shots with barely a raised eyebrow, before walking away with a “Not bad, Barton!” thrown over his shoulder. 

Clint would be insulted, if not for the barely spottable twitch behind Coulson’s left ear, which means that he is biting the inside of his cheek. For Coulson, Clint has learned, this is the equivalent of dancing on the sidelines waving pom poms.

Clint really, sort of  _ adores  _ the guy.

*

Absolute, unquestioning trust becomes a thing.

A thing that Clint is not accustomed to, and would have never believed possible.

Trust is a rare commodity, even in the high functioning environment of SHIELD, and Clint learns that it’s a Coulson trademark. There are other handlers, of course, but none of them are Coulson. 

Clint should have known, really. Tasha had put Clint’s hand in Phil’s and looked at them both with something that in other people would have been called an emotion. They haven’t faltered once. 

*

They get called Strike Team Delta, but only because Fury has no sense of humor and refused to go for  _ Spies and Coulson’s Ties _ as a team name. 

*

They are stuck in the worst orientation of their lives. Clint is a level five agent, and he has literally bled for his agency. It seems unfair, after all his sacrifice, to ask him to sit through new agent orientation too. But Phil had looked at him with that ‘ _ Yes, I mean you, Barton’  _ look and Clint has learned to respect the Look TM .

The new batch of recruits is mouthy. Mouthier, at least than what Clint is used to. Because once you’re broken in, every SHIELD agent worth his salt knows that when Agent Coulson is speaking, you shut the hell up and pay attention. This is a valuable lesson, because Phil is A) usually imparting valuable information that will save your life one day, and B) when you don’t interrupt him, the odds of Coulson getting annoyed and assigning you to a stakeout in Siberia in January are low. 

Clint knows. January in Siberia sucks balls.

Phil’s been interrupted at least six times by a couple of young kid agents several times in the last half an hour, not a good start. Clint marks them as Brunette and Big Mouth in his head. When Big Mouth opens his big mouth for the seventh question in a row, Phil’s shoulders stiffen and his lips are pressed into thin white lines. 

“Ooooh,” Clint’s mentaal five year old braces himself for the outburst. But grown up Agent Barton knows that Phil will feel guilty and upset later for letting his painstakingly built reputation explode bits of newbie agent all over the conference room walls. 

“Gentlemen,” Clint calls before Phil can speak, “Hold your questions for the end. Agent Coulson is on a schedule with far more important, world-ending problems to solve than where you are supposed to go to find a printer keycode.”

Phil’s expression remains the same, but one shoulder is gradually relaxed, betraying his relief. “Thank you Agent Barton,” he says. “And the answer is you don’t handle printouts. SHIELD does let agents walk around with paper files unless specifically authorized by me or Director Fury. If we do authorize it, there will be bigger problems in your life than not knowing the printer keycode. If we may continue.”

Agent Warner corners Clint after the briefing.

“Dude,” he says. “That was badass.” Clint looks confusedly back at him. 

“It’s like you could read his mind and avert the tornado.”

More confused blinking from Clint.

“Coulson is no longer allowed to scare newbies on their first day,” Warner says. “Not since 2009 at least.”

That’s when Clint realizes that what had seemed obvious to him from Phil’s body language was less than obvious to the rest of SHIELD.

*

It becomes a thing after that. 

Agents start coming to Clint to ask him what Phil meant on this feedback form, or if Coulson is in a good enough mood today to discuss the last R&D mishap. Even Hill, for crying out loud, hands Clint a couple of Eyes Only folders and sort of throws him at Phil as a bad mood diffuser. 

Clint thinks the whole lot of them are ungrateful whiners, because they make it sound like Phil’s a horrible boss. The truth is Phil is a kind, considerate, competitive, loving boss who has low tolerance for stupidity. They all need to try reporting directly to Fury for a change,if they think working for Phil is tough. 

It becomes routine for Clint to insert himself between Phil’s briefings with a “what he means to say is -” Never in a hundred years would he have thought himself to be the more diplomatic of the two of them, but then Fury assigns Phil to handle Tony Stark. 

The vein on Phil’s forehead is a beautiful thing. Clint’s admired that thing for years. The more Coulson interacts with Stark, the more that vein pops up prominently on his forehead.

Fury, because he finally acquired himself a twisted sense of humor at the most inconvenient time, assigns Clint to seduce Stark. Phil’s bad mood magnifies by a thousand. Even the SHIELD cafeteria lunch ladies begin to avoid him. 

In the end, Clint walks up to Stark and stabs him in the neck with the antidote ahead of schedule, because if he had waited, Stark would have been in very real danger of dying by the wrath of Phil Coulson. 

Clint’s job becomes a lot more enjoyable after Stark is back in scientist mode; and Clint returns to base to resume translating the slant of Phil’s eyebrows for the rest of humanity. 

*

Speaking of the vein on Phil’s forehead, Clint finds out more about the consequences of pissing it off.

He’s wandering down the hallway to Phil’s office, not really focussed where he is going, his mind still on their last mission. He is hungry, and he wants to grab something from the cafeteria, but he doesn’t want to eat without seeing Coulson today. The man’s been busy since they got back from Bosnia.

He sees Emily, Phil’s serious, new assistant packing her stuff in a large box.

“Emily?” he asks. She is his  _ waiting for Phil to come out of a meeting and how do we while away the time  _ partner. They are in the middle of a serious game of  _ paper ball in trash can.  _ He is winning of course, cause he is goddamn Hawkeye, but she’s more than keeping up. “What’s going on?” he asks.

“I got transferred to operations,” she smiles at him, putting a picture of her daughter in the box.

“Why?”

“Oh, Agent Coulson wrote a lovely recommendation to Director Fury,” she sighs.

“You don’t sound too happy about it.”

“Oh, I am,” she insists, “I really am. It is a great opportunity, and Agent Coulson was really generous with the recommendation. It’s just - I shouldn’t say anything.”

“Emily,” he prompts, cause he thinks he can warrant that kind of discretion about Agent Coulson’s affairs now.

“I am worried about his workload the next couple of weeks,” she admits, her expression sincere. 

“They’re going to send someone to -”

“It won’t be that quick,” she says. “He hasn’t kept a secretary for longer than seven weeks, you see. I am surprised - hell, I am shocked that I lasted five whole weeks.”

“What do you mean?”

“He can’t keep a secretary,” she explains. “Hasn’t, not since he started here, if the rumor mill is to be trusted. It’s not because he is a bad boss or anything like that. You know he isn’t. It’s just - do you know Umbreen in HR?”

“Hell yeah,” Clint says, not sure where she was going with this. Umbreen Malek is one of his favorite people at SHIELD. Tough, bossy, reliable, and extremely competent, Umbreen is the unenviable rep at HR who handles all the hostile work environment complaints filed against Fury.

“She started at SHIELD as part of the secretarial pool,” Emily says, pulling open a drawer and stacking index cards into her box. “She was Coulson’s assistant for seven weeks - she has the longest record, by the way, - before he realized the kind of untapped potential he had on his hands. Umbreen told me he marched her up to Fury’s office himself and demanded that she be reassigned or he would quit.”

Clint smiles. Atta boy Phil.

“So you’re telling me,” Clint says, putting the pieces together, “that Agent Coulson is so good at seeing the best in people that he reassigns every secretary he gets so they can go do some other job better?”

She nods. “And he is usually right. The new assignment usually is on a higher payscale, too.”

He chuckles, because is there a more  _ Phil  _ thing in the world.

“Emily,” Clint says. “I think you should take your new job and enjoy the move. Phil will be fine. If he spends too long getting a new secretary, I’ll go tell on him to Umbreen.”

She laughs. “That ought to get him moving. Would you mind helping me move this stuff?”

“Not at all, come on.”

*

Thor happens to New Mexico. 

That’s the most succinct way of describing those events. The only good thing about New Mexico, Clint maintains, is the acquaintance he makes of one Darcy Lewis. Phil calls it the worst thing to come out of this clusterfuck. 

Phil’s perennial bad mood notwithstanding, Darcy is good people. Clint decides to introduce Stark to Darcy on the days when Phil is being particularly mean to his agents.

Strike Team Delta continues to thrive, even through Coulson’s near idyllic mood for seven weeks after they recover Captain Rogers. (Seriously, Phil had walked on water. He’d bought muffins for everyone in the office. Muffins! A couple of newbie agents had wet themselves from the shock.) 

That’s when they had learned that Clint’s ability to translate the line of Phil’s shoulders or the set of his mouth extend to life outside SHIELD. Not that Clint has any, but he had made the mistake of presuming the same for Phil. 

He walks into Coulson’s office, freshly showered after a long, hard sparring session with Nat, to find the man bent over his paperwork. 

“You are drinking coffee,” he observes out loud. Oh, this was bad. This was very, very bad. 

“Nothing gets past you, Agent.” Yup, that tone was dry as the fucking Sahara. Coulson’s coffee was not the pitch black he usually takes but a lighter brown, that Clint could guess by just looking was the sickly sweet kind. Coulson never takes cream and sugar in his coffee, not unless aliens are invading, or his dry cleaners ruined a tie. Clint would have gone with the imminent global destruction angle, but Stark’s in the hospital recovering from heart surgery, so all the obvious candidates are out. 

Of course because this is Phil, asking if everything’s okay is out of fucking question. Clint changes tracks. 

“I beat Nat five out of nine sparring matches.”

Phil looks up from his paperwork, gives him the eyebrow raise.  _ You wish,  _ the eyebrow says.  _ She laid you out after three and let you win the fourth, before destroying you in the fifth. _

It’s an expressive eyebrow. 

Then, Clint remembers Coulson had said something about the Opera? Theatre?

“How was the thing on Saturday?”

A second eyebrow graciously joins the first. 

“The thing you had tickets to?” Clint prompts. 

“I got dumped.”

“Dumped where?” Clint asks, racking his brains for the last mission Phil was on. 

Phil leans back in his chair, setting his pen down and cracking his knuckles, every movement conveying his exhaustion. 

“My boyfriend dumped me at the restaurant before, so I didn’t feel like sitting through the Opera afterward. How was your weekend?”

Clint needs several moments because  _ what. _

_ No seriously, what. _

“If you are going to sit there and gape at me, Barton, make yourself useful and fill out your inoculation paperwork post-Siberia,” he hands over the stack of forms Clint’s been avoiding like a pro for weeks.

_ Fuck you very much, sir. _

Over the quiet, monotonic task of filling name, badge number and handler’s name on a number of medical disclosure forms (Next of Kin: Coulson, Philip. It’s been so since Mission #2, when Clint had bled all over Phil’s jacket. This trust thing is pretty amazing,) Clint mulls over the parts of the thing he just learned about the man he thought he knew better than everyone else. 

Coulson apparently is A) dating?, B) Gay? Or at least, bisexual; and C) had been broken up with. All three aspects were equally mind boggling, that Clint didn’t know which one to attach first.

He had never thought of Coulson as a man who had a romantic life. Phil is so committed to The Work, to the way he runs his missions, or handles the agents in his care. Coulson is always in his office, no matter how early in the morning or late at night Clint knocks on the door. It’s sort of removed all notions in Clint’s mind of Coulson going home to share somebody’s bed.

The gay thing is in cahoots with freakout number one, because what. Clint has been put through enough of SHIELD’s sensitivity training, and he’s been beaten up by Natasha too many times to subscribe to traditional stereotypes about gender or sexuality. Yet the redneck circus freak in him thinks Phil can’t be gay, he is badass, and perhaps the most masculine person Clint’s known. He knows this kind of thinking is fucked up. 

The third one is just baffling, cause why would anyone break up with Phil Coulson. If you had a chance to date THAT, why wouldn’t you hold on with both hands and NOT let go? 

Phil is the kindest, most generous person Clint knows. He is so talented and hardworking that he could work literally anywhere else and make more money. But Coulson is SHIELD’s very spirit. He chooses to come to work everyday and put his remarkable talents toward serving his country. Clint hadn’t believed in things like the greater good and saving lives and being better untl Phil came along and made Clint want to be better.

Phil isn’t bad looking, either. The man can pull off a suit like nobody’s business. Phil’s downright handsome. The one time Clint had seen Phil in his field uniform, he had whistled appreciatively. (To rile him up, but the sentiment had been sincere.)

So honestly, anybody would be lucky to have him. Honestly, if this boyfriend can’t see how incredible Phil is, it’s good riddance.

Clint realizes that Coulson is now staring at him worriedly. The silence in the room has stretched uncomfortably since Coulson’s pronouncement, and when Clint looks up at Phil, he sees an expression on his face that’s not yet made its way into Clint’s private lexicon of Phil Expressions. 

Disappointment.

Clint needs to fix this right away. 

“So, you go on dates?” 

The deadpan tone of his question restores some warmth back to both Phil’s expression and the temperature of the room. The Eyebrows of Judgement TM fall back to somewhat normal height, and Phil reaches for his (disgusting) coffee again, wearing his regular  _ oh-you-humans-amuse-me-so  _ expression. 

“Contrary to SHIELD rumors and popular belief, Barton,” he says, taking a sip. “I am not actually a robot.”

“You know about that?” It slips out before Clint can stop it. Sloppy. Very sloppy. 

“I also know that you started that rumor after Tokyo.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, sir,” Clint leans back in the chair. “It was Budapest.”

“What’s the rule, Clint?” 

“No mentioning Budapest in your office, sir.”

“Because Budapest sucks,” they both say together, just like Nat had made them practice. She isn’t here, but it wouldn’t do to hide things from Natasha. She has a way of finding out, and then there would be hell to pay.

“So you date?” Clint asks again, because all allusions made at SHIELD about Clint and certain dogs with bones are all accurate.

“He was a stockbroker.” Clint tries to imagine someone like Phil kissing a boring, nondescript, brunette stockbroker, with pocket protectors and calculators; and then coming to work to thwart terrorist plots for national security. He fails.

“Is there a problem, Agent Barton?”

“It’s rather difficult to think of you as someone with a life,” he says. “Sir.” And then adds, “outside of work, I mean.”

“It passes the time, Barton.”

They talk about paperwork some more, before Phil entertains Clint with a description of the time he went to the hospital to visit Stark. They spend the rest of the morning going over the next mission briefing.

Phil drinks the rest of his (now cold, still disgusting) coffee, and Clint finally leaves to attend Steve’s daily Avengers Training Drill from hell. At the door, when he would usually say goodbye, he turns around to look at Phil. 

“You know sir,” he says, before he can second guess himself. “If he dumped someone like you, he wasn’t that great to begin with.”

Ignoring Phil’s (rare, savored) look of astonishment, he shuts the door behind him. 

Oh, he is so, so fucked.

*

He tells Natasha. 

She looks at him pityingly, honest to god pinches his cheek and walks away.

He hates all of his friends.

*

After that, it’s like a dam opening. Premiere night at the theatre, only curtains open now: Life and Times of Phil Coulson, just a Regular Guy TM .

Suddenly, SHIELD briefings or Avengers meetings are impossible for Clint. He can’t focus on what Steve is saying if he is distracted by the new cufflinks shining at Phil’s wrists. He spends one entire mission trying to catch the light on Phil’s shirt at the right angle to catch the imperceptible sheen of his dress white. From there, it’s a short ride to Clint wondering if Coulson goes shopping in his limited free time for expensive formal wear, or if the shiny cufflinks were a present from the ex-boyfriend.

Clint’s mind is now filled with images of Coulson kissing a tall, nondescript, faceless man goodbye before leaving for work. The dude is probably a writer, Clint thinks unfairly, or perhaps a sensitive artist, or a doctor who works for Doctors Without Borders. He probably recycles and has as many degrees beside his name as Stark does. It will be just like Coulson to be sleeping with a genius-slash-annoying-hipster.

Clint really hates Coulson’s not-a-boyfriend.

Coulson, who once had been the no-nonsense handler, the one that junior agents made robot jokes about, suddenly had a household in Clint’s head. He didn’t know how he was supposed to cope with it all.

As if Coulson is perfectly aware of how the new information he offered up is fucking with Clint’s head, he brings cookies to work. In a Tupperware.

“You bake?” Rogers asks, when faced with a long, rectangular box of baked goods. 

“My sister was in town for the weekend and took over my kitchen,” Phil says neutrally, as though he hasn’t just turned Clint’s entire worldview of him upside down.

Clint can’t handle these new pieces of information, because apparently, the agent who single-handedly stopped a military coup in the middle east last week HAS A SISTER. Who bakes him cookies. Coulson has a disgustingly normal life outside of work, and Clint discovers that he really wants to share it.

*


	2. Chapter 2

The Coulson translator thing doesn’t wear off. It is a prominent detail in at least six, no, seven mission reports in the next five months: an oddly well timed elbow to the bad guy’s gut, somehow anticipating that Phil’s already secured the nerve gas, the mark is pretending to hold over their heads; if not, it is the frankly fucked mission in Singapore in which Clint and Phil anticipate the other’s next step and trap a secret Nazi cult (never mind that the two of them have no means of communicating with each other). 

Hill refuses to go on ops with them anymore, claiming that the silent looks and the mutual pining is driving her crazy. Because she is Hill, she uses the same words in her report to Fury, and perhaps even more daringly, says the same to Phil’s face. He makes a sour expression at her (that only Clint can tell) for ten seconds before he walks away with his  _ your-antics-bore-me _ pokerface in place.

Hill also calls them wildly co-dependent and creepy, which is just uncalled for from someone who, Clint is sure, knows the timing of Fury’s bowel movements.

There is admiration from other SHIELD agents, that Clint takes as his due when it’s for his aim, or the ability to jump off tall buildings without a harness. But when junior agents, or even seasoned rust-buckets like Sitwell clap Clint on the back with a “Good call on Coulson’s mood”, well Clint doesn’t know what to do with that. 

Coulson, because he is Coulson, only deadpans, “For someone who can apparently read my mind, your inability to guess what I’m thinking about your overdue mission reports is remarkable, Barton.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Clint can only grin back at him. “Screw you.”

Coulson smiles that eye-crinkly smile of his, the one that Clint finds rather cute.

Oh yeah, Clint is in an enormous amount of trouble.

*

The truth of the matter is that Clint is actually a clear-headed, reasonable and mature adult (stop laughing, Nat) and he  _ wants things.  _ When he wants things, he actually commits fully to getting what he wants. He refuses to be a self-pity laden martyr, because fuck that shit.

He started y bringing Phil coffee. Not the good kind, no sir. He gets the stuff from the vile bottom of the pot at Phil’s favorite diner on the way to work, because Coulson is a contrary bastard who prefers gravel to Starbucks. (The one time a newbie had handed Phil a Starbucks cup had been followed by the best seven minutes of Clint’s life. No translation had been necessary. Coulson had made his thoughts on the franchise perfectly clear. Every agent within earshot had hurriedly made themselves scare. Poor Agent Matthews still shudders every time he sees a damn Starbucks store.)

So anyway, Clint brings Phil his favorite coffee and leaves a cup on his desk, while he is out. He does not leave a note. 

They see each other two hours later at an Avengers briefing. Just before Clint has to leave the conference room, Phil mutters a quiet thank you as he passes. 

Clint smiles, pulls out his cellphone and calls for takeout for pickup. He sneaks out just before lunch and leaves hot boxes of Jasmine Curry and rice on Phil’s desk, still hot, his customary four napkins included.

*

It continues.

Clint woos him all day, keeping Phil fed and watered, (“he is not a plant, baby,” Natasha tells him, patting him on the head), and being generally well-behaved in an effort to reduce the amount of paperwork that lands on Phil’s desk. 

Natasha is mean, so she is whispering, pointing and giggling (for her) in a corner with Steve. Clint hates the whole lot of them. 

He corners Phil with dinner around seven in the evening. Phil is still in his office,(because of course he is, he will remain here for another five hours if past behavior is any indication), so Clint hauls the two paper brown bags of Indian food, holding on to everything between his arm and his chest, to punch in the keycode to Coulson’s office with his free hand. 

Coulson doesn’t look up (because he is Phil Coulson, he doesn’t need to) from his paperwork, and simply says, “I appreciate the food and the coffee, Agent Barton, but at this point, you have surely paid me back for whatever it is that you did and are now feeling guilty about.”

Clint freezes momentarily, before sighing, resigned. The last time Clint had brought Phil food was after a prank had gone horribly wrong, keeping Coulson in the field office for four days without a break.

Suppressing the strong urge to bang his head against the wall, he steps up and puts the takeout bags on Coulson’s desk. 

“I am trying to ask you out, Phil,” he says and settles into one of the visitor’s chairs, observing Coulson in its natural habitat.

The reaction, for Clint who knows what to look for, is immediate and myriad. Phil looks up and actually settles back in his chair (translation: Clint has managed to shock Coulson; which only goes to show the man’s obliviousness about his own worth; at least three quarters of SHIELD think that Clint is banging Agent Coulson like a screen door in a hurricane.) Phil’s elbow touches the armrest of his ergonomic chair, a concession to comfort Clint’s never seen Phil allow. He is favoring his left side, his mouth is open, and his shoulders are level. (Translation: Phil is not only shocked, he is speechless. Clint braces himself for a rejection.)

“Right,” Clint says finally, standing up and grabbing one of the bags, making sure that the bag he leaves behind is the one with the peanut free curry. (Coulson’s nut allergy is probably the most well known piece of SHIELD trivia. Fury has promised, that after miracle resurrections, if a dumbass agent manages to kill his best man with a nut, Fury will personally exterminate the dumbass agent. Fury is very thorough. Coulson’s nut allergy is on Page 3 of the SHIELD employee handbook.)

“I will leave you to think about it,” Clint says, before escaping with his vindaloo biriyani and the tattered remains of his heart.

*

“Did you break Phil, Agent Barton?” Clint wakes up to find Director Fury’s face looming above his bed, with a truly scary-motherfucker-expression. Clint has seen several of his scary expressions, and this one is truly the scariest.

“How did you - what the - FUCK!”

The eyepatch, in the near darkness of Clint’s SHIELD room is even more unsettling. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he sits up and looks at the bedside digital clock. (Phil had bought it for him from Portland. The arms of the clock are the arms of Captain America, and every day at six am, Cap-Clock says nauseatingly patriotic things like ‘Wake up for America!’ or ‘Rise and Shine Soldier’ or ‘Today is a good day to recycle!’ Phil has a talent for finding horrifying knick knacks.)

“It’s four a.m.!” 

“Exactly my point, Agent,” Fury continues like it’s perfectly normal for him to be looming at Clint in his rooms at ass o clock. “It’s four in the morning. I have an agency to run, and I don’t have time to sanction leave to irreplaceable agents.”

“Leave requests go to HR,” Clint recites because working in close proximity to Coulson means he has pretty much heard every regulation at least twice during his career said with the most deadpan expression known to man.

“Not if you are Level 17 and got a major case of chicken from catching feelings,” Fury grins showing all his white teeth, and frankly, the visual is not helping with the level of creepy in the room. “Those come to me.”

Clint only knows the twelve levels of SHIELD security clearance. Leave it to Phil to be on a different, secret level of his own.

“He asked for leave?” Clint asks, because of all the worrying things Fury’s said so far, that’s at the top of the list.

“For the first time in the fourteen years I have known the man, yes,” Fury nods, and light from Clint’s digital clock glints off his round head. “Need I remind you Barton, that Agent Coulson once came to work with both his legs in casts?”

"No sir,” Clint says. He does not need the reminder. The visual of Phil in his shirt sleeves, shooting at a group of Al Queda miscreants from his wheelchair is a picture hanging in HQ lobby, and the stuff of SHIELD legend. Everyone knows about Agent Hot Wheels from ‘02.

“ _T_ _ hat _ Phil Coulson sent me a perfectly filled leave request form, because whatever you said to him broke his brain. Fix this, Barton. Do I look like I care about your goddamn hormonal fluctuations? Do you think I am running the fucking Bachelor?”

“No sir,” Clint repeats, because what the fuck else is he supposed to do? 

Fury turns on his heel, muttering to himself. “Jesus Christ.” Some more muttering. “First, Stark and Rogers; and now this. It’s like running a damn daycare center.”

Clint decides that he is not going to think about the Stark and Rogers part for his own goddamn sanity, and makes a plan. 

*

He breaks into Phil’s house.

Not the one that’s on SHIELD’s records because he is not an amateur, and neither is Phil. He breaks into the other house that only Phil and Fury know about (and pretend that Natasha does not also know about. Nat is an internationally renowned, formidable assassin, but Clint’s home baked banana bread is her one true weakness. Clint is aware that with great power comes great responsibility; and only uses it once every couple of years.)

He breaks into Phil’s super secret safehouse to find the man on the couch, the television running in the background. They stare at each other for about three minutes in a cold stand-off. Phil’s hand is grabbing for the butt of the shotgun holstered to his thigh, and Clint is flattered that he hasn’t drawn it fully. 

“Barton.”

“Phil.”

The use of his first name seems to mellow him more than anything else, and slowly, he moves to the side of the couch, patting the spot beside him. Clint drops down onto the cushion and waits, trying to ignore the warmth radiating off Phil’s body, or the coarse hairs dotting Phil’s hands. 

“So,” Clint states, plain and clear, leaving the silence open and waiting for Phil to break. Clint can read Phil like a book, and right now, Phil’s projecting a demand for patience.

“I have to find another safehouse,” Phil says after seven minutes.

“You still have the one in Hoboken I officially don’t know about.”

“Fucking Romanoff,” Phil mutters, but the corners of his lips are twitching. After nine further minutes of silence, Phil scoots an inch closer to Clint on the couch, tentatively leaning into him. Clint holds himself perfectly still, not wanting to spook Phil into retreating again. 

“My Coulson translator is pretty good,” Clint says. “But this is what? Fear? Nerves? Because I am getting mixed signals here, Phil.”

Slowly, Coulson takes his body heat away from Clint’s side, standing up and walking to the window. It’s actually a pretty nice apartment, with bright yellow walls and comfortable armchairs scattered around the room. 

“We work together,” Phil says, still facing away from Clint. 

“I am aware.”

“We work together,” Phil repeats, emphasizing the syllables. “We work better than everyone else at SHIELD, which is already head and shoulders above everyone else. Every week, I make decisions that keep you alive in the field.”

Clint looks at him. Really takes him in, and then takes in the apartment they are in. Clint has known about the dummy addresses and the decoy safehouses for a while now, but he is putting it all together only now.

“You don’t actually have a home, do you? A house?”

Phil turns around, and the expression on his face gives away the lack of surprise at Clint putting it together. “No.”

“You don’t actually - you don’t want a relationship.”

It sinks in, and a dreadful weight settles somewhere below his navel. 

“No, I don’t.”

“Your sister who baked in your kitchen?”

“The Brooklyn safehouse.”

“Phil,” Clint shakes his head, exasperated. All of Coulson’s Cap memorabilia is in the Brooklyn safehouse, and is perhaps the one he would be most comfortable calling home. They stare at each other some more, Clint on the bright orange couch, and Phil standing in front of the window.

“I don’t actually believe it,” Clint breathes out after an eternity. “You are terrified.”

“Of some things? Yes, I am.”

Unbidden, unpermitted laughter spills out of Clint’s throat.

“Phil, you dumbass.”

Phil’s eyebrows rise less than a millimeter, giving away his surprise.

“How about I make you a promise? We take things slow. Glacially slow. I expect no commitment from you, and at work, nothing changes. You set the pace. I won’t push. I am giving you control.”

“In my experience,” Phil sighs. “That’s not your M.O., Barton.”

“Stick around long enough sir,” he smiles. “And you’ll see I am full of surprises. May I please kiss you now?”

Phil chuckles, eyes watery and deep, and then, slowly nods. 

Clint’s mind has made out this kiss to be something of the sort seen in movies, like the one in Gone with the Wind (hey, things happen during boring missions with the Black Widow and they are nobody’s business). The reality is both exhilarating and normal at the same time. Phil opens up for Clint beautifully, and with insistent probing, Clint’s tongue gets access. There are stars behind Clint’s eyes by the end, and Phil looks dishevelled enough that Clint wants to run his fingers through the man’s hair. 

Fuck. 

Clint has never been so attracted to someone in his entire life. 

“Hello,” he smiles, completely aware that he sounds like a doofus. 

“Hi,” Phil smiles back, shy and hesitant, and God, Clint’s gonna kiss him again. 

*

The next few weeks are an exercise in patience for Clint. 

It’s as though the universe is now letting him learn another one of Coulson’s languages, as Clint slowly grows to understand exactly what it is that Coulson is so terrified of. 

He confides in Stark, of all people. Don’t ask him how it happened. One minute, Clint is in the SHIELD break room muttering about perennially commitment phobic dumbass hot guys, and the next minute, Tony is next to him, poking at a piece of the Iron Man armor with a screwdriver, muttering along about blonde beefcakes with a stick up their butts. 

(Clint is ignoring everything he hears about whatever’s going on between Stark and Rogers for his own goddamn sanity.)

“Agent’s got a sweetheart,” Stark tells him. Clint resists the urge to stab him with his own screwdriver. “No seriously. A violinist? Conductor? Cellist? I don’t know, Barton. I don’t pay attention to details like that. I pay people for that.”

How does Stark even know.

“He told Pepper he couldn’t date her because he is in a long term relationship with Mrs. Agent.”

What the fuck.

Phil, when confronted by Clint (who’s got a stolen SHIELD personnel file in his hands, with details of Phil’s wife Laura, and their two point five kids and dog, sequestered away somewhere in a SHIELD farmhouse) is too calm for Clint’s tastes. 

“Let me get this straight,” Clint says. “SHIELD gave you a fake background and a fake wife and a fake life for an op, and you had them attach it to your official file?”

“It was helpful to let down interested parties…. Gently.”

Clint wants to strangle him, but decides to pinch the bridge of his nose in frustration. 

“When I asked you out, you didn’t..”

“I did not wish to lie to you.”

So not only did Phil not use the fake family excuse with him when he could have, he had in fact volunteered information about the break up with his ex boyfriend. Clint feels the truth set in - he isn’t the only one going out on a limb here. 

He decides to give his terrified boyfriend a break, and grins. “You have beautiful issues, Agent Coulson.”

Phil smiles that special not-a-smile that Clint is calling Cute Smile #17 in his head. 

*


	3. Chapter 3

It’s commitment phobia, but it’s also a serious case of chicken when confronted with any serious talk. 

They are actually pretty quick to fall into bed because sex is easy. Lust, need and touch are all parts of the language he and Phil speak well, and it has been so for years. Besides, the things that Phil can do with his mouth have got to be downright illegal. So they are both having varying kinds and degrees of kinky sex all over Phil's Brooklyn safehouse. Clint feels weird about all the Cap statues and pillow cases in the place staring down at him, but he forgets in the face of Phil's desperate need. 

Phil is everything Clint dreamed of in bed, and then some. It's good that Agents of SHIELD don't know (and if Clint has his way, will never know) the weakness Phil has for some old fashioned dirty talk and a real hard fucking.

Clint is a lucky bastard.

So, they have both seen each other naked under different lights and situations, and done things to and with each other to give horny teenagers a run for their money. 

Yet, Clint is not allowed to introduce Phil as his boyfriend when they meet Clint’s friends. This would be a problem if Clint A) had any friends who didn’t also not know Phil, or B) allowed more than fifty seconds of alone time with Phil for a Serious Conversation. TM

Phil had been a busy man BEFORE he started a full time relationship with Clint. Now, between the Avengers Initiative, wrangling Stark, SHIELD missions and stopping Fury from blasting all six of them into space everytime Rogers mouths off, Clint sees Phil for about an hour every week when they’re both awake. Clint ain’t gonna waste the opportunity if he can strip Phil naked in that time.

The point is that this no-name, no-home thing between them has remained so for nearly eight months and Phil seems to be in no hurry to change that.

Clint promised not to push. He is finding it more and more difficult to keep his promise, but he can be a big boy. 

*

Occasionally, there are dickhead agents at SHIELD on load from the CIA, depending on which agency’s pissed off Fury more this week.

While there isn’t another agent at SHIELD at Coulson’s level, there are dickheads from the CIA or the FBI who walk in, projecting the air of  _ take-me-to-your-leader-I-will-only-speak-to-him.  _ This week’s visitor is the Extra Douchey McDouche from the CIA. 

Clint is not allowed to put an arrow in Douchey McDouche’s eye. Coulson sent a memo about it. (Clint is also not allowed to make Stark do it, either. Coulson is very thorough at these things.)

Douche proves to be competent in the field, and once the op is over, with the confidence of someone who hasn’t been eviscerated by Agent Coulson of SHIELD even once, he struts toward Phil, gets all up in his personal space and puts his grubby hand on Phil’s hip. 

(Clint sees red. His hands are craving the bow. Hell, he will settle for a goddamn nerf gun. Clint can do a lot of damage with a nerf gun. Phil’s listed it under the Special Skills section in his Personnel file.)

He stays calm though, because Phil’s got his left eyebrow up, in his trademark  _ I-hope-stupidity-isn’t-contagious-because-there-is-too-much-radiating-off-of-you  _ look.

Phil looks sharply at where McDouche’s got his hand on his hip, and the guy has enough self-preservation instinct to pull away.

“SHIELD will handle clean up, Agent Horde.”

“You’re right,” McDouche smiles, showing off his perfect white teeth. Clint bets he can land a sharp arrow right between two of his molars. “Let’s get out of here and grab a drink.”

“No, you misunderstand me,” Phil says in his ever-patient tone. “This is a SHIELD op. We thank you for your assistance. We will take it from here. I am sure you’d be happy to enjoy a long weekend.”

“You’re relieving me?”

“With a glowing report, for your impeccable professionalism.”

The Coulson poker face has defeated bigger assoles. McDouche capitulates pretty fast, taking his grabby hands with him. 

Clint is done with this shit.

In full view of all the support staff on clean up duty in the field, he marches up to Phil who notices his intention and non-verbally flashes  _ ABORT! Abort! Not in public!  _ At him.

Clint walks right up to him, and says in his best specialist agent voice, “Agent Coulson. I need to debrief. Right now.”

Clint thinks Coulson is going to argue, or point out that a full debriefing is scheduled for eighteen hundred hours, or that historically, Clint hasn’t attended a debrief voluntarily ever, but all Phil does is sigh and follow Clint into the nearest med tent.

One eyebrow raise has the staff clearing out, giving the two of them privacy. 

Clint drops to his knees in front of Coulson, making quick work of his belt, getting his shirt out from where it’s tucked in, and pulling down his pants to expose the spot where that bastard had put his hands. ON HIS PHIL. On Phil’s gorgeous, unmarked right hip.

“When you went down on your knees,” Phil groans. “I was hoping for a different outcome.”

“Shut up, Phil,” Clint snarls. “I will blow you when we get home.” (Even though home is Clint’s SHIELD issue quarters, or Phil’s space in the barracks.)

Phil gasps as Clint bites at The Spot, hard and vicious, holding nothing back, and sure enough his teeth leave dents in Phil’s no longer pale skin. One of the dents is even bleeding slightly. 

Feeling like an animal, shame-faced, Clint looks up at Phil to see - (he flips quickly through his mental catalog of Phil expressions) - wonder reflected back at him.

“Are you done,” he croaks out, “or do you want to pee in a circle around me too?” It’s supposed to be sarcastic, but Clint honestly considers it for a moment. Phil glares at him. 

“I want to tell people,” Clint says, aware that he is pushing. He is not allowed to push, but he is pushing, goddammit, because a complete stranger put his grubby filthy hands on Clint’s Phil. He is still on his knees, half-determined to place another strategic bite, and deciding to push his luck instead. “I really want to tell people.”

“Define people.” Poker face back in place. Oh, goody.

Clint hasn’t really thought about what telling people would actually entail. Fury and Natasha know already because they are Fury and Natasha. Clint told Stark, which is a good bet that Rogers knows too. (Still not touching that with a ten foot pole, no sir.) Ditto for Banner, because the Science Bros are usually attached at the hip. 

“If dickheads hit on you,” Clint explains finally. “I want you to tell the dickheads that you are seeing a hot archer.” He adds. “And tell SHIELD to redact that stupid secret wife story from your file.”

“Clint,” Phil smiles (cute smile #32). “I filed paperwork about our relationship two weeks ago.”

Something thrills in his chest, and he stands up to kiss Phil silly. He is well-versed in Coulson speak, so he says back, “I love you too, Phil.”

*


	4. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here be sexytimes.  
> Barebacking, Bondage, D/S elements, comeplay, smut. You can skip this chapter if you don't want to read this. You won't miss any plot if you skip to the next chapter.

Some days, he thinks  _ this is enough. _

He’s got Phil on his knees, his mouth around Clint’s cock, looking up at him through his eyelashes, and doing things with his tongue designed to drive Clint mad. Phil’s wrists are tied together at the small of his back with his own tie, and he’s being a good boy for Clint, determined to make him come before he can get his own release. 

He looks up at Clint, the blue of his irises prominent, his pupils blown with lust, and he takes it all down. Clint’s gonna come, he is already on edge when Phil makes a noise from deep down his throat, a desperate little rumble like he can’t breathe, like he is  _ suffering  _ for Clint’s pleasure, and that pushes Clint over the edge. 

He pulls out, and paints Phil’s face with his come, who dutifully opens his mouth to catch some of it, but people have written sonnets about Clint’s aim, so if he wants to cover Phil’s entire face with it, he is gonna do it; he is gonna mark Phil up as his. If he could, he would keep Phil like this, covered in his come forever, tied up beside him, on his knees for him - 

He pants and comes down from his high gradually, leaning against the dining table of Phil’s Brooklyn safehouse. Phil looks up at him, mouth open, showing Clint’s cum on his tongue, his entire face covered with the stuff, waiting meekly for the order - 

God, he is the hottest thing Clint’s ever seen, and some days, he can’t believe he is allowed to touch and tie up and do the most nasty - 

“Hold it, don’t swallow yet,” he says. “I want to fuck you with my come in your mouth.”

Phil closes his mouth, (he wouldn’t dare swallow, not when Clint’s explicitly forbidden it) and looks at Clint’s crotch with a doubtful eyebrow raise. 

“I can fucking get it up,” Clint snarls, running his fingers through Phil’s hair. “You haven’t worn me out yet, sweetheart.” 

Phil’s got his mouth dutifully closed (“So good for me, so obedient”) so Clint leans down to kiss him, running his tongue over Phil’s pressed lips. He walks around Phil, getting to his own knees, pressing fingers between Phil’s (red, radiating heat) cheeks. Phil hisses because Clint’s had his way with his ass once tonight already, the evidence causing the wetness spilling onto Clint’s fingers. 

Phil once accused Clint of being a filthy bastard, but he had said it after three orgasms, with pink cheeks, so Clint is confident his actions are welcome.

Phil groans, and the sound is high pitched enough for Clint to know that Phil is riding that line between pain and pleasure. He has got to be getting sore, Clint’s been playing with his hole for so long that the rim is puffy and swollen. Even now, Phil is not bitching at him to hurry the fuck up, only because he’s holding Clint’s cum in his mouth like a good boy. 

Clint is hard again, and he is sure that this is probably going to be the last one in him for the night, so he wants to make it count. Phil hasn’t even cum once, and Clint has no intention of letting him until after Clint’s third orgasm, so he wants to keep him feeling neglected and denied for as long as possible. (Only coz’ Phil loves it.)

He lays a slap on Phil’s hole with four fingers, and the man hisses, back arching, nearly jumping. Clint wraps his free arm around Phil’s hip, pressing his shoulders down to the floor, kissing his collarbone.

“You suffer beautifully for me, Phil,” he says. Three fingers in, and Clint ensures that Phil is open enough from before. 

“Still so wet for me, baby,” he croons, because his three fingers are sloppy with his own cum. He pulls out, the head of his cock ready and brushing at Phil’s rim, waiting to get inside. He reaches forward with one hand to run his fingers down Phil’s face, fingertips brushing the high cheekbone, tracing the line of his jaw clenched closed, holding on to Clint’s cum. 

He thrusts in, and Phil makes a delicious noise that goes straight to Clint’s cock, mouth still pressed tight. 

“Sweetheart,” Clint presses kisses down Phil’s spine, slowing down, because there’s a difference between wanton cruelty and keeping Phil on the edge like he wants. “My lovely. So pretty for me.”

Phil whines, back arching, his nipples pressing against the cold floor, trying to get some friction on his cock, but Clint slaps a hip. He takes Phil’s cock in his hand, and the first contact makes Phil clench up around him, undulating waves of tightness that make Clint see stars.

“You can come whenever you want, baby,” Clint allows, feeling generous. He is pretty close to his own orgasm, and Phil’s being the most meek he’s ever been so far, so Clint guesses the man is done for the night. “I want you to swallow when you come, okay? I want you to drink down everything I gave you, that you have been keeping warm in your mouth for me like a good boy.”

He thrusts once, twice and thrice before Phil’s coming all over his hand, Clint presses his other hand around Phil’s throat to feel his Adam’s apple bob, to feel him swallow; and just like that, he is coming deep inside Phil, clutching on to Phil’s shoulders for dear life.

He collapses on top of Phil, and they lay like that on the cold floor, Phil’s back to his chest, trying to get their breathing back to normal. It takes several minutes before Clint can pull out (Phil hisses deliciously, making Clint feel guilty right away) and he goes to the bathroom to get aftercare supplies.

He returns quickly with warm washcloths, a bottle of water and a plate of crackers from the snacks drawer. He puts his supplies down on the floor, pulls Phil into his lap and presses kisses down his face. 

“My beautiful boy,” he whispers. “You wanna come back to me, baby?”

Phil hmmms into Clint’s thigh, still loose limbed, eyes faraway. His pupils are wide, and when Clint turns him over on his lap, he looks up adoringly. 

“Hi there,” he kisses Phil’s forehead. “You were perfect for me, weren’t you?”

“Yes Clint,” he says, and Clint’s relieved to hear his voice. He sounds like he is on the way to being himself. He holds the water bottle to Phil’s lips, making him drink a few sips, whispering encouraging words into his scalp.

“Are you okay?” he asks, once he’s half-carried Phil to his bedroom, and laid him out on the soft sheets. “Was that too intense?”

“‘Twas fine,” Phil murmurs, even as he adjusts himself to lie on his front to avoid pressing down on his backside. “It was perfect. Love you.”

Clint drops a kiss into his hair, trying to remember what the fuck he did to be rewarded with someone as lovely as Phil. “Love you too, sweetheart.”

_ Yeah, this is enough, _ he tells himself as he watches Agent Coulson school his expression into stoic resolve everytime he tries to sit down the next couple of days.

*


	5. Chapter 4

It’s two steps forward, one step back with Phil. It’s like dealing with a traumatized puppy. Clint has to be mindful to not spook him, both hands visible at all times, no sudden movements. He had truly believed he would be the one with all the issues in this relationship.

Shows what he knows. 

*

They have a big fight about living arrangements.

For the record, Clint had not suggested they move in together. Clint hadn’t even suggested that he move into Phil’s SHIELD quarters. He had just said that his own quarters were getting a bit cramped (with Phil crashing there most nights, their collective junk cluttering Clint’s limited shelf space, Nat sleeping there when she felt like it, and lately, Tony hiding there from Steve (Clint is still NOT asking, thank you very much)).

Clint’s got steady pay now, and he has most of it squirrelled away in a secure account. He can get his own apartment like a fucking adult. So he does the responsible, adult thing and circles a couple of ads with a red marker off a printout of an online classifieds. See? Fucking research, like a functioning adult. Phil ought to have been proud. 

He had made a bunch of appointments to visit the places today. He was going to go and check out the apartments. All he had done was ask Phil if he would like to come along. 

And now, they weren’t speaking to each other. 

This time, Clint is done apologizing or backtracking. He’s done nothing wrong. So he says, fuck it, and makes his way out of HQ when he runs into Steve. When Clint explains his destination, Steve asks if he can tag along. Grateful for the company, Clint agrees. They sign out one of the SHIELD cards and get on the road. (Phil can pull the GPS tracker if he decides to apologize, but Clint is not holding his fucking breath.)

They make small talk, and during the journey, Clint learns the following about Captain Rogers - A) the man is also looking for an apartment because he is sick of the four, grey walls of his room at SHIELD, B) he and Stark are engaged in a pigtail pulling contest that Stark is winning at the moment, and C) the man is hopelessly gone for Tony Stark, the poor bastard. 

They both like the first apartment on Clint’s list, so Clint willingly offers the second bedroom to Steve. (Never mind that Clint had looked specifically for two-bedroom apartments in the hope that A) Nat wouldn’t mind crashing with them, and B) Phil would feel less stifled in a larger space.) 

But Clint can be realistic about where his relationship with Phil is going. It’s been a year and at a standstill. He is about to get dumped. He knows it. So he figures now is as good a time as any to move off base and decrease the potential awkwardness. 

They sign the lease and plan the move-in particulars. There’s still other things to take care of, like renters’ insurance and its peripheral paperwork jungle (that Phil is so good at), but the apartment is pretty much theirs.

Steve smiles at him gratefully as they make their way back, while Clint tries to ignore the throbbing pain in his gut, missing Phil like a limb.

*

He is in the range alone, when Phil finds him, a stack of papers in hand. There is also, Clint notices, a cord of new bowstring wrapped around his right palm. He draws another arrow and nocks it.

“Clint.”

“I am still mad at you.”

An imperceptible sigh. Coulson exudes weariness.

“I know.”

He releases the arrow. Bullseye. 

He tries not to think of the black, nondescript face painted on the target as his boyfriend’s, and fails because his boyfriend is a dumbass.

“For your sake, I hope those are work-related,” he says, gesturing at the papers in Coulson’s hands.

“I - erm, I called your first choice property,” he answers. “Someone else signed the lease today. I am so sorry, Clint. If you are still -”

“Don’t break something, Agent Coulson,” he chuckles, lacking any mirth.

“Clint.”

“ _ I _ signed the lease. Well, with Steve, I guess, but it was me.”

“Steve?”

“You are slipping, sir. Did you not employ the considerable surveillance capability at your disposal to find out who nabbed the apartment I had my heart set on, or is that where you draw the metaphorical line?”

He was getting really loud now, a couple of agents hovering dubiously at the door deciding to get the hell away from here.

"I try not to use SHIELD resources to fix blunders in my personal life."

"Blunders, huh?" Clint asks, unclasping his quiver, and settling on a bench along the wall. "Just this afternoon or this entire relationship?"

"Clint, I am trying to apologize-"

"And I am trying to say that you suck at apologies."

"I am really sorry about this afternoon-"

"Are we really doing this? Here and now? Alright, let's do this. I am not just talking about this afternoon, alright? I was NOT asking for us to move in together-"

"I get that now-"

"You would have got it then too if you'd just fucking listened. And you know what else? I don't appreciate the accusation that I am pushing you too hard or too fast in this relationship when I have been nothing but patient with you. I -"

"Clint-"

"Can you, just for once, listen to me fully before you give me an impassive speech about all the things that terrify you?"

Phil obediently falls silent, but his eyebrows betray a simmering rage beneath.

“I was NOT asking for us to get an apartment together. Fuck, Phil, you can’t even stand in the fucking lunch line with me at work. Do you really believe I think you’re ready for us to live together? I was not asking you to move in with me, and the accusation that I was surreptitiously trying to lure you past your boundaries insults your intelligence and my commitment to this relationship. And frankly?

“Frankly, it plain insults me. If that’s what you believe me to be capable of, then I don’t know what the fuck we’re even doing here.

Clint stops, and then takes a deep breath, because he has got to start thinking about himself in this fucking relationship, even if his heart is breaking at the expression on Phil’s face.

“If I ever push you beyond what you’re comfortable with, then I expect you to talk to me, Phil. Instead you threatened, with your blandest agent voice, to dump me. You know what I am really feeling, Phil? Not offended, no. I crossed offended a couple of state lines ago and I am in fucking hurtsville, Agent Coulson.”

“I don’t know where we go from here,” Phil says, his voice cracking, and Clint resists the urge to take him in his arms.

“I do. I want a break. I need some time and space away from you, because any more of this and I will actually go fucking crazy with how much I love you and don’t get to have you.”

“I love you too,” Phil says immediately, and Clint is pretty sure he is not imagining the man’s watery eyes.  _ Damn. Fuck it, fuck it all to shit.  _ “What does a break entail?” Phil asks, and Clint hates how quickly the man can regain composure and revert back to Agent Coulson mode.

Clint takes a deep breath. “The relationship is indefinitely on hold. I am just - I thought I could pursue this, and make you happy. I thought I could be happy with what you gave me. I am sorry I was so fucking wrong.”

“Do you still want me to remain your handler?”

“Fuck yeah,” Clint says because he has a masochistic streak a mile wide. “I don’t see why Agent Barton should get punished for Clint’s mistakes,” he laughs coldly. “Please don’t punish Agent Barton for my mistakes, sir.”

They stare at each other, before Phil says, “For what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

“Coulson,” Clint says on his way out of the range, his bow holstered on one shoulder. “Don’t even pretend that you’re not a little bit relieved.”

*


	6. Chapter 5

Living with Steve is more fun than Clint thought it would be. He is feeling raw around the edges, a Coulson shaped hole clawing away at his insides. But Steve’s company does help.

Clint is realizing how much he had put his own life on hold, while revolving around Phil’s. To be fair, Phil hadn’t asked it of him, but Clint’s tendency to obsess has contributed to how Clint had cut-off every Avenger except Natasha from his life.

He hadn’t known, for instance, that Steve held a part time job in the Art Department at Stark Industries, or that Bruce and Steve had a weekly book club slash gossip session over herbal tea every Tuesday that stank up the entire apartment.

Rogers was a swell guy, really (and yes, it’s possible that some of his lingo was rubbing off on Clint). He was a very clean roommate, with a busy life that kept him out of Clint’s hair for the most part. Between working for SHIELD, working for a soup kitchen down in the Bronx (he was annoyingly  _ like _ all the propaganda about him, while simultaneously being  _ not at all like _ all the propaganda about him), he had also enrolled himself in art classes at NYU. 

“Aren’t you exhausted?” Clint had asked him, slumped over the counter in their new kitchen, having found a freshly showered Steve after his morning run around the city. 

“I don’t need much sleep,” he’d said, beaming at Clint over pancakes and eggs, irritatingly chipper.

Living with Steve has its downsides, too; the biggest being the number of times Clint’s come out into the living room to find Tony Stark passed out on their couch. (Clint is not going to ask, he really isn’t.) This is not even counting the number of times that Clint’s caught the two of them in compromising positions all over their apartment (WE EAT THERE, STEVE!). Steve is always embarrassed and red-faced afterward, and Stark is just smug. Clint doesn’t understand why they couldn’t just do the deed at the literal ivory tower that Stark owned. 

At work, Clint and Coulson are as professional as ever, their working relationship practically unchanged. Except for Tasha, Clint doubts if anyone could detect the underlying awkwardness, the hint of strangeness, or the longing glances they throw at each other when they think the other isn’t looking.

He still adores the hell out of Phil. His respect for the man, his competence, his skill, his kindness - the things that made him fall for Phil in the first place are ever present. For the most part, Agent Coulson is all formality and professionalism. Clint wishes (unfairly) that it were harder for Phil, but there is no indication at all their breakup affected him. 

Nearly three months after their loud breakup in the range, Clint doesn’t see the possibility of a resumption at all. If he had hoped that they would both calm down, that distance would make the heart grow fonder, then he’s been wrong. It’s like Phil is relieved that Clint dumped him before Phil had to do it himself.

Clint  _ is _ heartbroken, no two ways about it. He unloads on Stark again, because he isn’t known for his stellar decision making and because Stark is usually in his apartment, writing on the walls and making a mess in his living room.

This morning, Stark has spread out his tablets on the coffee table and the carpet. He says he is here waiting for Steve to return from his morning run with Wilson. Everyone (including Thor, who never notices this kind of thing) knows that Tony is jealous of Wilson. Steve is yet to catch on. (Despite their fuck ups, Clint and Phil weren’t the most weird couple in the Avengers, thank you very much.)

“He is a pararescue, you know.”

Yes, Clint did in fact, know that. 

“Stark Industries designed those wings.” Clint would find this funny if he wasn’t hearing it for the hundred and twentieth time. “So really, I am saving all the lives Wilson is saving.”

“Have you considered,” Clint asks, “not sitting on my couch and just going on the run with Steve?”

“Once. Then I decided to have it declared an Olympic sport and built an improved arc reactor to save my failing heart.”

“No, seriously.”

“You haven’t ever gone running with Steve, have you?”

“No.”

“Nobody can,” Stark says, poking at one of his tablets. “Wilson can’t. Steve does his version of sprinting like a Greek God, and Wilson follows along at a pace most humans would call jogging.”

“Yeah Stark,” Clint leans back against the back of the couch. Steve picked it up at a garage sale. “Sounds romantic. You should totally be worried.”

“Why don’t you sleep with him? I will pay you.”

Clint raises an eyebrow at him. “This sounds dangerously illegal and like you’re pimping out Captain America.”

“Not STEVE!” Stark says, forgetting the indoor voice rule again. “I mean the pararescue boy.”

“You want me to seduce Wilson so he would leave Steve alone? What is wrong with you?” He swats at Stark with one of tablets, trying to make it sting.

Stark rubs at his shoulder, and offers increasingly larger sums of money while fixing their wifi speed. Clint’s post-Phil life is filled with drama, thanks to his stupid friends. 

*

Life, somehow, impossibly goes on.

He finds in Tony a friend of the kind that grows on you. He identifies the same lonely boy hiding behind snark in Tony that he sees in the mirror everyday; and soon they’ve bled on each other enough times for it to not grow into the kind of friendship for the ages.

The Avengers remain stronger than ever, and as much as he may want to be petty and hate Phil (he can’t), he can appreciate how Fury and Coulson achieved the impossible. They got a bunch of Type A assholes to function together as a team.

*


	7. Chapter 6

Steve Rogers was raging drunk. 

Considering the kind of day they were having, and the fact that this is the first time the man’s been drunk since 1934, the Avengers decide to let him be.

Beside Clint, Stark is sipping his bourbon (Clint knows it’s apple juice, Steve knows it’s apple juice, fucking  _ Thor _ knows it’s apple juice; somedays, Clint doesn’t know why Tony even bothers with the act anymore), and patting Steve consolingly on the back. Steve’s face is pressed to Tony’s neck and has remained there since Thor opened the endless flask of mead he’d procured from Asgard.

They are all silent in their grief, self-flagellating in their failure.

It would have been okay if it had been Hydra, or one of the other low life scum the Avengers dealt with. Invasion of a planet or even Aryan supremacy notions were simple enough in their baseness to comprehend. 

Today’s meaningless loss of life just seemed so wasteful.

One of the victims was only seven.

The Karter brothers had refused to stop shooting civilians until Captain America admitted that their cause was justified and encouraged all Americans to take up arms against ‘ _ big Government’. _

Clint’s mentally decided to let Steve have ALL the drinks today. 

“Steve, baby,” Stark is whispering consolingly to him, “this is not your fault.”

Clint looks at Thor, and sees him help Nat to her feet and to her bedroom. He checks in with Jarvis on the rest - “Dr. Banner is asleep in his room, Mr. Wilson is on his way back to his apartment, and Agent Coulson has just returned to his.”

What.

“Phil is not overseeing clean up?”

“I believe,” JARVIS answers, “Agent Hill is working with the FBI to monitor developments overnight.”

Damn it. He should have realized Phil was in bad shape too.

Clint sighs, decides to be weak tonight, borrows one of Tony’s cars and drives to Phil’s apartment. It’s weird that Phil never asked for his keys back, so Clint lets himself in, keeping his movements quiet in case Phil’s passed out exhausted already.

In hindsight, he should have remembered what Barney taught him about people who go where they aren’t welcome. 

It’s clear that Phil is in his bedroom, and Clint is intimately familiar with the sound his headboard makes against the wall if they got rough enough. After more than one dreadful mission, Phil’s clawed at his chest for Clint to give it to him hard and fast. 

Phil is not alone in the apartment.

Suppressing the urge to throw up, he rushes out, the front door slamming behind him. 

He doesn’t want to go back to the Tower (some other faceless man, fucking Phil). His apartment would be too empty (someone else’s dick, opening Phil up). He really doesn’t want to be alone right now (someone else with their fucking hands on Phil’s pale skin).

Fuck.

He’s never pretended to make good decisions, so he heads to the nearest pub. It’s a horrible, dirty little hole in the wall, but it has got a television running in the corner, the horrific images from today playing on a loop, Steve’s heartbreak, Tony’s steely resolve, their faces crumpling as first responders carry out body after body from the wreckage in Midtown, the Avengers acting as rescue hands alongside law enforcement, all of them wanting to share Steve’s burden.

Clint plops down next to the only other patron,  _ Mr.Long-Haired-Dark-And-Handsome _ , and orders himself a drink. 

“On the house,” the bartender tells him when he reaches for his wallet. “We know who you are, man,” he says, shrugging at the television.

Nodding his thanks, Clint suppresses the urge to just lie down for a few minutes with his head on the bar.

“You are an Avenger,” Mr.Brooding-Handsome observes, and something about the way he says it makes Clint pay attention. His clothes look caked in dirt, like he’s been wearing and sleeping in them for a while. His baseball cap appears new and pristine, the price tag still stuck to the side. It’s warm in the pub, but the dude’s got his gloves on under his dark jacket. His stance says military, and the defensible seating location says traumatized. Clint was trained in surveillance by Phil Coulson. He can tell when a homeless vet with a missing limb is sitting in a pub, wearing stolen headgear.

“Yes, I am,” he says. “Hawkeye. But you can call me Clint.”

He was also trained by the Black Widow, so he knows better than to offer a hand to shake.

“You are the one with the bow.”

“Resident sniper.”

“The dumbass without the sleeves.”

Now that’s just offensive, while Clint’s been a perfectly nice co-patron of this fine establishment. He nods.

“You watch Stevie’s back,” the man says, now looking at Steve’s face on the television.

Clint is rapidly putting together the pieces in his mind, remembering the eyes-only file Phil and Steve have been pouring over for weeks now. (Captain America is having a string of difficult days.)

“I am proud to watch his back,” he says, having made up his mind. “It’s a tough job, and it’s not just me now. There’s six of us who watch his back. I am told that he had a friend who used to do it for him, but it takes six of us to keep the big dope in line.”

“Did he send you for me?” Barnes’ eyes narrow. Gone is the relaxed posture he had. He is now alert, eyes darting to all exits in sequence, left to right.

“Dude, I don’t think he even knows you’re in the country,” he says, trying to remember everything he’s seen Phil do to not spook rookie agents. “I am pretty sure he is looking for you in Romania. I am just having a crappy night and ended up at the right bar at the right time.”

Maybe it’s the fact that Clint looks as miserable as he feels. Maybe it’s that Clint can be pretty harmless looking when he wants to be, but Barnes finally relaxes, slumping into himself. He is still doing the  _ thousand-yard-murder _ stare, but picks up his drink again.

“I don’t wanna meet him.”

For Cap’s sake, Clint hopes there’s a  _ yet _ at the end of that sentence.

“Not forever I hope,” says Clint. “Coz that will bum Cap out, and trust me, none of us like it when that man’s sad.”

“It’s the pout,” Barnes says, and immediately looks surprised for saying it. “He used to stick out that lower lip at me, and con me out of my last box of cigarettes.”

“Dude,” Clint decides, signaling the bartender to refill their glasses. “If we’re gonna do nostalgia and war stories, I need to be like ten times more drunk.”

*

It’s clear that Barnes is in a tremendous amount of pain. 

Physically, he seems okay. He even tells Clint about the food he’s been stealing little by little, staying both fed and hydrated. He wouldn’t tell Clint where he’s been sleeping, though Clint can suspect from the state of his clothes that it’s the alley. 

To keep the man warm more than anything else, Clint invites him back to his place.

“Steve lives there,” Barnes says, his eyes looking terrified and hopeful at the same time.

“He is with Stark tonight,” Clint says, mentally tallying up the number of glasses of mead with the amount of sulk he saw in Steve earlier, “and won’t emerge until tomorrow. Plenty of time for you to make up your mind about leaving. Or staying.” He adds for good measure.

Barnes nods. Perfect, his plan (to not let a veteran sleep in the cold) is working.

So when Barnes presses him against the wall and kisses him once they make it into the apartment, Clint is surprised.

“Okay, okay, that’s great,” he pushes back, arms outstretched between them, palms clammy and bunching up Barnes’ dirty jacket between his fingers. “I am a little late to the party, but yeah, I see what’s up now. Sure, fun, this is great, buddy, love the enthusiasm, I have got zero complaints, but - are you sure? Coz your head’s gotta be a fucking mess.”

“Mess doesn’t even begin to cover it,” Barnes says to his gritted teeth, slumped against the back of Clint’s front door, and now that he is noticing it, the man is remarkably handsome for someone who must be haunted, “But know what I am really sick of? It is people telling me what I should and shouldn’t want.”

“This is crazy,” Clint says because what else is he supposed to say?

“Yes it is,” Barnes nods, his right hand has still got hold of Clint’s left wrist, and his thumb is caressing the skin gently. “But I want you, and if you don’t -”

“I wasn’t trying to pick you up at the bar.”

“That’s sad, because I was.”

Clint kisses him, because what the hell. He is still weak for flattery, and as much as he loves Phil, adores Phil - the man doesn’t love him back. 

He is going to take what he gets, even if it’s a warm body and a rather traumatized but enthusiastically willing war veteran.

The man is hurting, and easy on the eyes, and seems clear headed enough to want this. Clint won’t deny an attraction when it exists; and he sure as hell isn’t going to throw the man out into the cold when he can be warm and comfortable and sated in Clint’s bedroom. 

Clint decides to take it, and leave regrets for tomorrow morning. Soon, he’s got his arms around Barnes’ neck, kissing him roughly. Barnes grabs him at his waist and hoists him up like he weighs nothing. Cint wraps his legs around the other man, and pants against Barnes’ mouth. 

“Bedroom’s that way,” he gestures by cocking his head toward the door. Barnes carries him to it, mouth now pressing kisses down his neck. 

“You have really good ideas.”

*

Barnes is gone by the time Clint wakes up the next morning, alone and naked on his bed. That, more than the noise of puttering around from the kitchen, tells him that Steve is back. 

He throws on a pair of sweatpants and t-shirt (not Phil’s, not anymore) and makes his way. Steve looks better than he did the previous evening, even though he still has deep circles under his eyes.

“How you feeling, Cap?”  
  
“I am fine,” he smiles but it’s really more of a grimace. “Eggs?”

“Scrambled, please.”

He wonders if he should tell Steve. 

_ Hey, so I fucked your long lost, undead best friend _ doesn’t sound good even in his head. But telling Steve about the Winter Soldier is a foolproof way of successfully distracting Steve Rogers from the rest of the craziness in his life right now. 

Making an executive decision, Clint stays silent. He would first evaluate how Barnes is doing, and encourage him to seek contact with Steve. Eventually, that would mean more to Cap than Clint knocking their heads together.

*

Naturally, the peace is shortlived.

He’s barely walked his poor, exhausted self to SHIELD HQ when he is literally grabbed by Maria Hill and dragged all the way to Conference Room C.  
  
Phil’s sitting at the head of the table, a projector behind him and his usual pile of files and papers stacked neatly in front of him. Clint is frozen by the image on the monitor against the wall, a CCTV photo of him and Barnes stepping outside the bar.

“Sloppy of you,” Phil says. Clint is adept at speaking Coulson, so he can read the stiff left shoulder, the slightest crease of forehead, and the thin, pressed lips. 

“Are you having me tailed?” he asks, incredulous.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Barton,” That’s Hill chiming in. Clint had momentarily forgotten her presence in the room. “We are tailling the Winter Soldier.”

“Bucky,” he snaps at her. “His name is Bucky Barnes. Or Sergeant Barnes, if you will.”

Clint is feeling on edge and defensive, both at Phil’s perfect poker face (an indication clear as day that he is quietly furious) and at Hill’s dismissal of his own loyalty.

“Sergeant Barnes,” Phil speaks now, “is aware that we’re watching him.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Clint snaps at him too, angry with his passivity now. They don’t have a chance in hell of sneaking up on the Winter Soldier. The next forty minutes are torturous, because Agent Hill puts him through a standard debrief, even though he makes it clear that he did not initiate contact with Barnes for SHIELD.

Yes, he is fine. 

Yes, he is coherent.

Yes, he is making his own decisions.

Healthy. 

Yes, he said he had eaten.

No, he does not present immediate danger to civilians.

No, Clint does not know his current location.

No, Barnes is not ready to make contact with Captain Rogers.

Yes, he slept at Clint’s apartment.

No, he has no further information on the subject. 

Hill is smart enough to read between the lines, and offers no comment. Phil is perfectly serene, tugging at the ends of his shirt sleeves. He is wearing the panda bear cufflinks. (He is simmering with emotions underneath. Phil only looks entirely harmless when he is thinking up seventeen different ways of killing you bloodlessly. Clint is fluent in Coulson-ese.)

When Hill ends the debrief, Clint walks as fast as he can while not technically running. 

As he not-runs out the room, he is positive he heard Hill mutter  _ idiots _ under her breath. 

*

He stays away from Phil for the rest of the day.

For one thing, he is sure that Coulson’s anger is not because he is suddenly a jealous ex-whatever-they-were (Clint tries not to be upset by this). It’s actually because Clint engaged with an infamous assassin who probably (most certainly) could have killed him in his sleep. If Clint is lucky, Phil won’t file a report within Tasha’s clearance.

*

Phil tells Tasha in person.

Clint has no choice but to spar with her, and let her beat him around the mats in the gym for a while.

They grapple, throw, punch, hit and through it all, they talk. (If Phil and Clint have their own language, so do Nat and Clint.)

_ He could have killed you.  _

_ But he didn’t. _

_ Just because ONE Red Room operative didn’t kill you ten years ago. _

_ I am fine, Nat. _

_ How is he? _

_ Coping. Better than SHIELD gives him credit for. _

_ “ _ Be careful,” she says at the end. Clint hears the  _ don’t-get-hurt-again _ loud and clear.

“So obviously, we don’t tell Steve now?”

“Obviously,” she states, and that’s that.

*

Stark is another matter entirely. Clint doesn’t know when Stark will stop being a complete annoyance and pain in the ass (Phil lives in hope, he knows) but it won’t be a moment too soon.

Clint must give him credit. It’s less than an hour from when Phil filed the report. 

“So at this point,” Clint says in lieu of a greeting as Stark falls into step beside him, “you just have JARVIS taking a vacation on SHIELD’s servers, huh?”

“I have always wanted to build him a summer home,” Stark says, leaving the armor on sentry mode. They walk together in the direction of the cafeteria because Clint is starving after getting beat up by Natasha, and it’s a good bet that at any time of the day, Stark wants coffee.

“I want to tell Steve,” Tony says, not beating around the bush. Clint rather likes that about him. 

“Of course you do.”

“We can’t keep this from him! Do you know how long he’s been looking for Barnes?”

“Do you want to take another choice away from Bucky?”

Tony falls silent beside him, and Clint decides enough is enough. He is done with having people yell at him today. 

“You have read the file? He’s been through hell,” he continues. “He asked me not to tell Rogers and I am keeping my word.”

“If Steve finds out we knew-”

“I will survive the wrath of Captain America,” he states. “And you wouldn’t even  _ know  _ if you had kept your AI to your damn self.”

“Yes, but what’s the fun in that!”

They get to the cafeteria and find a table already occupied by Tasha and Phil. Stark heads there before Clint can stop him. Tony shamelessly grabs the coffee by Phil’s elbow (It’s a sign of trust. Phil’s worked very hard to win Stark’s trust, and now Coulson is one of the handful of people in the world who can order Jarvis to stand down, can hand things to Stark, and can babysit Pepper’s nephews.)

“What’s the good word, Agent?”

Phil looks at his watch. “Even for JARVIS, that was quick.”

“Stark wants to tell Steve,” Clint says, getting to the point.

“Stark wants to not get dumped, more like,” Nat snorts.

“Hey,” Tony says, now reaching for half of Phil’s sandwich. (Phil does not bat his hand away, but simply reaches for the other half to take a bite.) “You have not had the patriotic Eyebrows of Disappointment glaring down at you. It’s very unpleasant.”

“I think Barnes will initiate contact in less than 72 hours,” Phil says, opening a packet of ketchup and passing it to Stark. He doesn’t put ketchup on his sandwiches, but he had brought one with the tray anyway. (He was anticipating that Stark will show up at lunchtime to be a pain. Doesn’t miss a thing, that man. God, Clint  _ loves  _ him.)

“And you know this how?” Stark waggles his eyebrows at him. “From prior experience of also sleeping with Birdbrain? Seventy two hours is the withdrawal window?”

Phil’s left eyebrow twitches.  _ Good,  _ Coulson wants to sock him too.

“He will initiate contact on his own,” Phil continues, having suppressed the urge to use his right hook. “An outcome that would please Captain Rogers, I imagine.”

Tony concedes with a nod, because they HAVE grown up as a team, and when Phil says something with conviction, Tony tends to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Seventy two hours, or I am telling Steve myself.”

*

Barnes is asleep on Clint’s bed when he makes his way home at the end of a long fucking day. He looks several years younger, sleeping peacefully. He’s tucked himself under Clint’s thick, warm comforter and is surrounded by a mountain of pillows. 

“It’s just me,” Clint whispers because he understands nesting holes, and he knows that Barnes was awake the minute Clint’s key turned in the lock. “Go back to sleep, I will keep watch.”

Slowly, Barnes’ breathing settles into something more natural. Clint takes off his shoes, sheds his gear and clothes, and climbs into bed beside the sleeping man in his boxers. 

(He has to remove three knives, two handguns and a blade from under the pillow, comforter and sheets before he can settle in, but he leaves the weapons visibly within reach so Barnes can rest easy.)

He’s been where Barnes is. He can understand.

He looks at Barnes, and feels the urge to brush his hair back and press a kiss to his forehead. He resists it, and turns out the light.

*

Clint makes them early breakfast/late dinner around three am. There’s leftover Chinese and a carton of fried rice in the fridge that seems to have escaped Steve’s metabolism, but it’s definitely not enough for the both of them. Before Barnes can eat it cold from the box, Clint transfers the contents to a microwave friendly bowl and shows him how to reheat it. (He has the weirdest sense of deja vu of watching Phil do the same for Steve several months ago.)

Once Barnes is sufficiently distracted in the process of inserting food into his mouth, he texts Tony to keep Steve at the tower for longer, and gets started on making them eggs.

Watching Barnes eat is shockingly like watching Steve eat. (Clearly, Clint is going to need more eggs.) After six of the eggs are inhaled, Clint asks, “you’re still hungry, aren’t you?” 

Barnes shrugs, in the age-old gesture for  _ what can you do _ .

Clint’s SHIELD psych file is full of notes about unresolved issues with availability of food. He doesn’t understand most of the jargon, but he knows what helps. He goes back to the bedroom, picks up his own bomber jacket off the floor and hands Barnes his spare one.

“Come on, we are going out.”

*


	8. Chapter 7

It’s comical watching Barnes sit at the small, red dining table. It’s Phil’s favorite twenty four hour joint, usually filled with truckers and the early morning office crowd at this time of the night.

Barnes takes one look around, and pats his pockets. 

“Haven’t got any money,” he mumbles at the table top.

“I got it covered,” Clint assures him

“You don’t have to-”

“My friend,” Clint tries to get the words out around the lump in his throat, “My best friend? He adores Captain America. He is a huge fan.” It’s all true. Phil, for all the turbulences in their relationship right now, is still his best friend. “The real serious kind. When he met Cap, he couldn’t talk to him for three days straight. But the guy he really loves is  _ you. _ Cap is his hero, but Bucky Barnes is the guy he  _ wants to be. _ He would never forgive me if I took Bucky Barnes to breakfast and let him pay.” 

Barnes falls silent, but he does look up from the tabletop, meeting Clint’s eyes.

Nat’s favorite waitress Tabitha comes along, fussing over Clint and getting them glasses of fresh juice. She pets Clint’s hair and asks after Nat but keeps her distance from Barnes, as if knowing he wouldn’t welcome the touch. Clint makes a note to leave a larger than usual tip.

Barnes looks utterly stymied by the menu so Clint orders one of everything. He has barely touched his SHIELD salary, and even if Barnes manages to eat him out of the balance in his checking account, he’s got a card that Tony gave him stashed in his wallet somewhere.

Barnes’ eyes go round at the pancakes, and he makes a downright vulgar sounds when Clint pours syrup on this stack. The hashbrowns are also a hit. Coffee gets a thumbs down, so Clint bats his eyelashes at Tabitha for milkshakes, which the diner does not serve at the crack of fucking dawn. 

She adores him, really, so they get vanilla milkshakes.

Barnes inhales his first milkshake, and looks at Clint like he invented sugar. Tabitha brings him another one, which Barnes drinks slowly, like he is appreciating it properly this time.

The tab is enormous, but Barnes looks like he is finally full. 

Tabitha looks at them like she is amazed they are still standing. Clearly, Clint needs to bring Thor here. 

“What do you want to do?” 

It’s nearly five, and they are beginning to see early morning joggers, and the run of the mill returning from the night shift crowd as they walk back to Clint’s apartment. 

"Steve?” Barnes asks, shuffling his feet on the sidewalk.

Clint checks his phone, quickly reading Stark’s message. 

“Stark’s taking him for a surprise trip to DC to visit Carter. Apartment is in the clear,” he tells Barnes, who obediently follows him inside.

Clint guesses Tony is also trying to achieve a Sam free vacation, because Tony is an idiot.

“So he good to him?” 

“What? Stark, you mean?”

Bucky nods.

“Yeah, he adores Cap,” Clint says, and elaborates since this is the first time Bucky’s asked questions about Steve’s present life instead of just telling stories about pre-serum Steve. This is behavior Clint would like to encourage, and he’s learned a thing or two about rewards and reinforcement from Phil training rookies. “Tony is crazy about him. Thinks he walks on water.”

“And Stevie? Is he happy?”

“Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

Clint worries that maybe he’s pushed too hard, but Barnes replies, “Maybe tomorrow.”

Clint smiles. He never bets against a Coulson guessed timeline, and he never will.

Once they are inside, Barnes hovers in a corner of the living room, while Clint turns on the television. After fifteen minutes, the hovering gets unbearable, so he says, “Just ask me what you want to, Barnes.”

“Can I - erm - I slept really well last night.”

Clint is fluent at reading Phil Coulson. The Winter Soldier is relatively easier.

“You can hog the comforter, and sleep for as long as you like. I will keep watch.”

They spend Saturday like that. Barnes sleeps the entire day and Clint doesn’t have the heart to wake him. He is feeling protective toward the man, he’s got this strange impulse to knit him a thick sweater and feed him. Nat’s always claimed he was gonna pick up a stray one of these days.

He checks his emails while Bucky sleeps - just an overly professional email from Phil reminding him about his half yearly physical on Monday. On the other hand, the Avengers’ group chat is lit, with Stark sending pictures from the seniors’ center, Cap smiling sweetly sitting beside Peggy Carter, and then another one of Stark with Peggy, and then a third of the lovebirds alone beside the Washington Monument. Clint texts Steve to pick up a souvenir Hawkeye magnet for the apartment fridge, and then settles at the counter in the kitchen to bake.

He hasn’t done this in a while, not since the breakup with Phil. He’d always loved baking, and when Clint and Phil had been  _ Clint and Phil,  _ he had delighted in Phil’s enthusiasm for sugary goodness.

He would send Phil to the office with croissants, or sometimes a box of cupcakes. Phil would dust the powdered sugar off his chin, and kiss him against the counter. 

Shaking his head, he puts some music on his phone (obscure Russian stuff; you try keeping the Black Widow out of your phone) and gets to work. A couple of hours later, he’s put a tray of picture perfect strawberry and vanilla cupcakes frosted and ready to be eaten.

Barnes’ eyes go wide as saucers when he spots the cupcakes on the counter, once he emerges from the bedroom. He hovers by the tray, looking at Clint, his arms stuff by his side, as though worried he wouldn’t be allowed one. 

Clint sighs.

“Help yourself,” Clint prods gently. When Barnes looks suspicious and makes no move to take one, Clint picks up a small plate, places one of the cupcakes on it, knifes it cleanly into two and hands Barnes the plate. Surprised at finding himself holding the plate more than anything else, he nibbles the edge off a tiny one. A slow, childish grin crosses his face (he looks breathtakingly handsome), and he plots the rest of it in his mouth.

“You can have as many as you want,” Clint says clearly. Barnes takes another and cuts it into two the way he’d seen Clint do. (Phil is the messiest cupcake eater, biting into it from the side, getting frosting on the tip of his nose. The last time Clint made these, he’d spent five minutes before work licking stripes along Phil’s cheeks, holding him by his lapels.)

Barnes devours four more before he looks up, catching Clint watching him. He gets shy and hesitant, picking up another one and holding it out to Clint, smiling sweetly.

Well.

Clint can’t deny those eyes now, can he.

_ This is a terrible idea,  _ a voice that sounds a lot like Natasha is telling him inside his head. He ignores it.

“Oh, so now I get one too?” he asks cheekily. Barnes blushes, and presses a palm to the back of his neck.  _ Adorable.  _

He takes the cake that Barnes is holding out, and eats it messily (like Phil, he thinks and chastises himself for thinking it) before stepping between Barnes’ legs to kiss him gently. 

“Hi,” he whispers, their lips swollen and sticky with frosting. 

“Hi,” Barnes grins back, looking gobsmacked and yeah, definitely fucking bewildered.

_ Screw it,  _ Clint says to himself,  _ he’s had worse ideas. _

*


	9. Chapter 8

_ Confession time,  _ he texts Stark.  _ Send the Star Spangled Man. _

DC to New York is four hours in one of Stark’s cars, but thirty minutes by Iron Man Express. Steve is at the door by minute thirty four, his hair windswept and face flushed red.

He stalks into their living room, looking possessed, barking at Clint.

“Where is he?”

“You wanna take a deep breath, big guy?” He asks, looking at Tony’s downtrodden expression from behind Steve.

“I will get to  _ you _ later,” Steve barks, marching to the kitchen and looking around, as if he is expecting Bucky to jump out of the pantry with a box of pasta in hand.

“He is still a little rough around the edges,” Clint warns. “If you want to scare him and make him take off again, by all means, continue.”

Steve visibly deflates. Tony, who is far more perceptive than Nat’s initial report gave him credit for, velcroes himself to Steve’s front, putting his hands on Steve’s hips and pressing his cheek down against his chest. Slowly, Steve’s complexion returns to normal and he asks Clint in a quieter tone, “How is he?”

“Sleeping in the bedroom,” Clint is happy to answer, now that Steve isn’t doing an impression of an ogre. “I fed him, I let him rest, I fed him again, and now he is resting again. Treat him gently. He isn’t even in the same territory as being fine.”

“I don’t want to wake him,” Steve says, looking torn, young and lost. “Let him sleep!” He adds, as if it’s Clint who came barging in here, screaming his head down.

“I can’t, can I?” Bucky says from the doorway. “Not with all this ruckus you are making.” 

Stark immediately stiffens beside Steve, who just loses it. Big tears make their way down his cheeks, and he looks at Bucky like he can’t stop, like Barnes will disappear if he blinks even for a second. 

“Always had to make an entrance, you punk,” Bucky says, his voice cracking at the end. The man is shaking, his hands clenched tight into fists, a shiver of nervousness in his movements as he walks closer.

“Had to make noise to get through to your thick skull, didn’t I?” Steve says, his eyes watery, his voice hoarse, and moves as though to hug Barnes, but Tony’s got a tight grip on the man’s wrist. (Clint vows to break one of his arm guards on purpose, just so that Stark can have some fun fixing it.)

Barnes, who started rather horridly at Steve’s sudden, aborted motion to hug relaxes back into his former, slightly less rigid stance. 

“Still got a thick skull,” he croaks out. “All messed up inside though.” 

“That’s alright, Buck,” Steve says, the words now rushing out. “I will take care of you.  _ We _ will take care of you.” He ducks his head to meet Tony’s eyes. Tony nods and slowly withdraws his arm from around Steve’s waist.

“Buck,” Steve tells him. “There’s someone special I would like you to meet. This is Tony. He is my - erm - boyfriend. He is also a big fan of yours, which I am not allowed to mention.” Steve looks at Tony, who is glaring at him, mortified. “Oops.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Tony manages, even as his eyes promise Steve several weeks of sleeping on the couch.

Clint, who was distracted by Tony and Steve now directs his gaze to Bucky, and is taken aback at the transformation of a few minutes. Barnes is smiling winningly, eyebrows cocked, expression confident.

“Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes,” he offers an unsteady hand. “Now what is a lovely fella like you doing with a punk like this one?”

Stark flushes. There’s no two ways about it. Stark flushes, but gapes at him, then looks at Steve. Clint laughs because Barnes just rendered Tony Stark speechless (something that even Phil doesn’t manage to do).

“What did I tell you?” Steve says, wiping his eyes. “Charmer Bucky Barnes.”

They talk after that, Barnes sitting in the armchair, keeping all doors and windows in view, and Steve plopping down on the corner of the couch closest to Barnes. Tony, failing completely at subtlety, follows Clint into the kitchen, where he’s starting a sandwich assembly line. He’s got a pair of emotional super soldiers to feed.

“You handled that well,” Clint breaks the silence, because it looks like Tony is going to spend the entire time shuffling his feet in their kitchen, pretending like he isn’t trying to listen to the conversation in the living room. 

“What? Right - yes, that’s me,” he says, distracted. He produces a bag of blueberries from his jacket, and offers some to Clint. Clint shakes his head, continuing with his sandwich assembly line.

“I want to take them both back to the tower,” Tony says. 

Clint can’t really say he is surprised. He thought as much. Barnes has been doing okay outwardly, but Clint knows that the man needs professional help. Ideally, he should be somewhere with 24x7 monitoring at least for a while before he can find his feet. Usually this is SHIELD’s M.O., but Steve doesn’t trust Fury as far as he can throw him. 

“Yeah,” he says, swallowing around the lump in this throat, because this is not about him, “It’s probably for the best.” He agrees, now stacking the sandwiches on plates. Six each on two plates, and a single each on two others for the non-supersoldiers in the house.

“I know Steve wants to continue leasing this place,” Tony says, helping carry one of the huge stacks, “so you shouldn’t worry about rent. JARVIS is setup to make monthly payments.”

“Does Steve know that you are trying to be his sugar daddy?” he laughs, because riling Tony up is always fun. 

“I may have forgotten to tell him,” Stark admits. ‘The offer still stands, Barton.” When Clint looks at him questioningly, he adds, “To move into the tower.” 

Clint isn’t ashamed to admit that he’s still entertaining dreams of Phil taking the other side of his bed in this home, so he shakes his head no. “The answer’s still the same.”

Tony looks at him like he’s studying Clint, “you don’t need to wait for Agent to be happy, Barton.”

Natasha’s report really didn’t give the man enough credit. 

“I know,” Clint swallows, eyes burning, “I just - I could get used to having a place of my own for a while.”

Stark nods, and helps carry the plates into the living room where food vanishes with astonishing speed.

*

Even though Barnes was only a partial roommate, occasional ghost and part time lover in his apartment, the place feels emptier without him in it. His absence rankles. The first week of his absence feels unbearable, so Clint bites the bullet and stays for as long as he can at SHIELD. This has the unfortunate side effect of increasing the amount of time he spends with or near Phil. 

They haven’t talked, not since the time Clint ran out of Phil’s apartment while the other man had clearly been entertaining company. They have both been uber professional during meetings and debriefs, but neither of them have sought the other out for a private conversation. While Clint is  _ just fine _ TM  with not having to face Phil’s judgement about his relationship with Barnes (is it even a relationship?), a part of him is still craving Phil’s affection. A part of him still loves him. 

Life goes on, as it annoyingly tends to do. Barnes gets therapy, and a horde of SI lawyers work to exonerate him. Phil and Clint fall back into their efficient, professional work lives.

Barnes does show up at Clint’s apartment from time to time, especially if Steve’s hovering gets unbearable. They don’t do anything more than cuddling on the couch (Clint decides to let Barnes set the pace of whatever this is, or isn’t) but things escalate one evening when Barnes sits him down on the armchair and looks at him seriously.

“Is everything alright?” Clint has to ask.

Barnes looks sheepish. He’s gotten his hair cut short again, and with his clean-shaven face, he looks more like the Bucky Barnes from history textbooks than ever.

“Steve explained. About consent.”

Well, that’s out of left field.

“Okay?”

“I am sorry - if I took advantage.” Huge, chocolate brown eyes look at him like they need Clint to say something. Clint can only gape at him. 

“Did I take advantage?” Bucky asks when Clint’s realized nope, he’s got zilch.

“What part of  _ fuck me harder  _ did you misinterpret?” he asks, because what the hell. 

Barnes smiles, just a hint of the handsome war hero in his smile, one dimple begging to make an appearance on a clean shaven cheek. “Just making sure, don’t be an ass, Barton.”

“You ask the impossible of me, sir,” and sure enough, there it is, the dimple. God, the man is fucking gorgeous.

“Can we - erm - again?” 

“And they say romance is dead,” Clint laughs, putting his arms around Bucky’s neck and kissing him. 

Maybe things will be okay after all. 

*


	10. Chapter 9

Every mission that Natasha gets injured in goes to fucking hell.

It’s just a fact, that if you take Strike Team Delta’s numbers and crunch them, you will find that universal constant of situations that go FUBAR: they have all got Nat bleeding over them. 

Phil hates missions in which Nat gets shot. He says it’s not good for his blood pressure, and the paperwork wreaks havoc on his carpal tunnel.

Of all the places for Nat to go down from a bullet to the hip, Clint resents the fact that it happens in Portland. Their SHIELD safehouse is compromised, Clint’s right ankle is broken, Phil is favoring his left side because his right shoulder is dislocated (but they are not allowed to mention how Agent Coulson might just be human, no sir), and Nat is bleeding out from her abdomen. 

It’s a near fatal mission for any other team. For Strike Team Delta, it’s just a bad Tuesday. 

Behind a dirty alleyway, they take stock. The mission is such that they can’t make too much noise or be spotted by local law enforcement. A hospital is out of question (even disregarding the utter distrust of health care professionals rampant in this particular team’s psyche). Clint can still read Phil easily, and he sees the purposefully easy-going gait and translates: a decision that Phil doesn’t want to make, not like this, but he is gonna. 

Clint steals clothes off an apartment fire escape, while Phil fashions a sling out of his shirt. They go incognito within minutes, unsurprisingly efficient for a team trained by Agent Coulson. 

“Where now?” Clint asks, wondering if the mess they’re in is big enough to drag Tony in. One strategic security camera sighting and Clint can get a message to JARVIS. 

“I have a safehouse,” Phil says, and Clint wonders if this is another  _ not-a-home. _

“How are we getting there? We’ve got no transport,” Clint can’t help but point out.

“Agent Barton, this is the twenty first century. We are ubering there.”

*

Agent Coulson has unique ideas about hiding in plain sight, so they uber it to Coulson’s safehouse. 

When they pull up into the driveway of the most domestic, blissful, two storey townhouse in the suburbs, Clint is thrown. This is not a Coulson type safehouse, smack dab in the middle of a populated residential complex, neighbors chatting and people walking their dogs. There is an actual ice cream truck passing by, a bell ringing.

Nat gasps beside him, clearly having put something together that Clint’s missed.

A plump, elderly woman, grey at her temples with the prominent Coulson Jaw opens the door. 

“Philip!”

Clint’s brain needs several breaths to re-calibrate because what. 

“Philip! What - for Christ’s sake!” 

The unflappability is apparently genetic, because after the initial momentary shock, she ushers them inside into a comfortable living room, helping Nat to lie on the settee (Coulson’s family is the kind to own a settee. Clint tries to imagine a world in which he ever thought otherwise, and comes up empty). Phil sits on the floor beside her, pressing his crumpled up jacket hard against her hip to contain the blood flow.

Clint hobbles behind on one leg, trying to not put weight on his ankle, taking in the cream wallpaper and he warm fireplace (going even in the middle of the day). 

“Jason!” Phil’s mom (or who Clint thinks is Phil’s mom) calls over her shoulder, “Your son brought guests!” 

“Bring your medkit,” Phil calls, hands still red, pressing down on the jacket with effort. Nat’s finally passed out, now that she’s horizontal and (relatively) safe. “Sit down before you do further damage to that ankle, Barton.”

Phil’s mom whips around when she hears his name. 

“Barton?” she asks, turning wide eyes to Phil. “Barton? As in Clint Barton?”

“When you asked your son to bring his boy home,” an elderly man comes in toting an old fashioned doctor’s bag, a stethoscope in his right hand, addressing Phil’s mom, “clearly, you should have specified less bleeding.”

He steps beside Nat’s prone form, and makes Phil slowly remove the jacket to assess. 

“Why is he my son when he gets blood all over the furniture, but your son when he’s on TV fighting aliens?” Phil’s mom asks, rolling her eyes.

She nudges Clint into another armchair. (The number of squishy, comfortable couches and chairs scattered about the room is ridiculous.) Clint, who’s brain stopped processing anything after  _ bring his boy home  _ is still in a dze, though that might just be the adrenaline wearing off.

“Mrs. Coulson,” he manages to croak out, settling back into the nearest (ergonomic) chair. 

“Call me Judith, dear,” she says, pushing the coffee table closer to Clint can keep his injured ankle elevated. “We were hoping to meet you under different circumstances, but Phil could never resist a dramatic entrance.”

“Mom.” 

“Relax, Phil,” she says, ignoring him in a tone that brooks no argument, helping Clint unlace his boots and checking the damage to the ankle. “I will get you some ice, it looks nasty. Jason honey, can you check on Clint once you’re done with her?” 

Between Phil and his dad, they manage to stop the bleeding. Jason (who apparently has experience as a trauma surgeon;  _ of course  _ Phil is from a family of badasses) stitches her up. She is asleep peacefully when Judith puts a blanket over her legs and Jason tapes up Clint’s ankle with some KT tape from the first aid box, and stitches up a nasty cut on his forehead, while Phil excuses himself to wash the blood and dirt off his hands.

Judith comes back in the living room with a tray, set with steaming bowls of chicken soup. She hands him a bowl, and he gulps it down gratefully, making her smile. She brings him some soft bread, so warm like she just took it out of the oven, and honestly, Clint can’t remember ever having a more satisfying meal.

“The guest room is set up for you, Clint,” she says, sitting down beside him. That at least tells Clint that the Coulsons know Phil and he are no longer together. “We don’t want to move her yet, so let’s let her be. Jason will sit with her so that she doesn’t wake up alone. Phil baby, you can crash in your own room.”

“Excuse me, please,” Phil politely leaves the room, but Clint is fluent in Coulsonese, so he can read the  _ don’t ‘baby’ me in front of the people I work with, mother  _ plain and clear off Phil’s shoulders. 

“You are prepared,” Clint says to Judith, the warmth in the room and the food in his belly loosening his tongue. 

“We are used to Phil’s unconventional career choices,” she smiles. “Even if I wished he would grow up to be a doctor. He likes to take care of people.”

Clint has to nod in agreement. 

If you were an agent on a Coulson op, there was no chance of you getting left behind. Phil takes care of his people. He is not the kind to suffer fools, so you better be on the top of your game, but Phil committed to every mission, body and soul.

There are pictures on the mantelpiece. When Judith catches Clint’s curious gaze, she offers him her arm in support and walks him closer. There’s a younger Judith, surrounded by boys in red and blue blazers, a prep school uniform of some sort.

“I am a retired teacher,” she says in answer to his unvoiced question. “Taught mathematics for forty five years.”

“Bet you were popular,” he smiles.

“Oh, I still get visiting students who bring me macaroons.”

The next picture is of Phil with a smiling brunette, and there’s the Coulson jaw again. 

“Sister?” he prompts. 

Judith nods, “At Molly’s graduation eight? No, ten years ago. She is an oncologist at Seattle Pres.” 

“Smart family,” Clint smiles, his heart throbbing with longing. An ex-carnie, circus freak high school dropout won’t qualify, even if he and Phil were dating. 

“We are almost all academics.”

“Phil is the black sheep?” 

“How like him to not tell you about his doctoral thesis,” she laughs. 

“Doctoral -”  _ Because what. _

Judith laughs and nudges him toward more pictures in the second row. Something tells Clint that she’s wanted to show off her son for a long time.

There is a lovely portrait of young Phil in his Rangers uniform, and of Judith in a bridal dress with Jason. It can’t be older than ten years. Behind it is the treasure trove of childhood pictures. There’s little eight year old Phil with a bucket of candy, and in the most adorable Cap costume, beside Molly dressed up as a really cool Han Solo. It is the most precious thing Clint’s ever seen, and he immediately wants to take a picture to send to Tony.

“Oh my God,” Clint laughs, picking up the photo. 

“You can keep that one if you’d like,” Judith looks pleased. “I have several copies.”

“Mom.”

They turn around to see Phil, freshly showered, wearing a t-shirt with Steve’s shield on it and sweatpants. “What have I told you about handing out blackmail material?”

“There’s chicken soup on the counter, baby,” she says, completely ignoring him. Clint decides he likes her, and quietly pries the photo out of its frame. 

They sit at the counter on tall bar stools while Phil eats. Jason and Judith keep a light conversation, filling them in on the neighbor’s lives, and about the guy Molly’s dating in Seattle. It’s all nauseatingly domestic, and it feels strange to Clint who’s craved this kind of normalcy with Coulson for as long as he’s loved the man.

After Phil’s eaten, he shows Clint up to the guest room, a comfortable cozy space with a twin bed and yellow curtains. Phil hovers awkwardly in the doorway.

“There are extra towels in the hall closet if you’d like to shower,” he says, looking anywhere but at Clint.

“You told your parents about me.” 

Phil looks sheepish, a deer in the headlights, but he stays quiet.

“I would like some kind of answer, Phil,” Clint pushes because  _ in for a goddamn penny. _

He watches Phil take a deep breath. There’s that famous Coulson courage. 

“I can explain, but it will sound horribly manipulative,” Coulson admits. 

Clint makes up his mind. “I want to hear it.”

“The week we - fought, broke up?” 

Clint nods. “I was going to ask you to fly to Portland with me for the weekend.”

_ No way.  _ Clint is ashamed to admit his first thought is that Phil is messing with him, but Coulson doesn’t lie. Not about shit like this. Not about anything. That’s rule one of working with Agent Coulson. You trust him. 

“You freaked out about the apartment,” Clint can’t help but point out, because this doesn’t make sense, it doesn’t make sense that Coulson was ready and gearing up for this other major step forward in their relationship, but he  _ freaked the fuck out  _ about the stupid apartment. 

Then, taking in Coulson’s miserable, stoic face, Clint remembers. He remembers that week. He remembers why he had had time to go apartment hunting in the first place. Agent Coulson had cleared his team’s calendar Friday through Monday. That’s why Clint had the bandwidth to look up the apartment classifieds.

Coulson had cleared his Friday so they could fly out together.

He gasps. 

“In my defence,” Phil starts, but stops abruptly as he reconsiders. “No, sorry, no. I am not making excuses. I said unforgivable things to you. I should have listened to what you were really asking, instead of letting my -” He clams up again.

Clint really hates all the things that Phil won’t say.

“Letting your what? Honest to God, Phil, don’t keep things from me now.”

“I was - I wanted the trip to be a surprise.”

“I got that part.”

“I erm - I thought it would make you happy, knowing that I was ready to commit for the long haul. I knew that’s what you wanted.”

“I do,” Clint says, staring at the floor, because yeah, they were in  _ present tense  _ territory now.

“But I was slightly concerned about - um - potential rejection.”

Clint is floored. He is absolutely floored, because not only did Agent Phil Coulson say  _ um  _ in the middle of a sentence like he was uncertain about word choice, he also admitted to being worried about Clint rejecting him.  _ What the hell. _

“Jesus Christ, Phil,” he reaches out with one hand, gesturing for Phil to come inside the bedroom. He pats the spot beside him, and Phil gratefully drops beside him, resting his elbows on his knees. “You are a dumbass.”

Coulson honest to God flushes red, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah.” He admits.

“Come here,” he sits up on the bed, folding his legs under him, but it breaks his heart watching Phil be unsure of his footing around him. “You didn’t say anything.”

“You asked me to give you space,” Phil points out. He is right. “You said I was driving you crazy, and that you were done.”

“So you what? You decided to be passive aggressively jealous of Bucky Barnes?”

_ Who was the man in your bedroom that night,  _ Clint doesn’t ask as that would make him a gigantic hypocrite.

“I thought you’d moved on,” Phil says, speaking to the carpeting.  _ I thought you’d moved on too. _

Clint is done talking about other people the two of them may have screwed or are screwing.

“You know what I have learned, Phil? You are it for me. Love of my life, you are. There’s you, and the rest of the world is a distant second.”

“Really?” Phil smiles at him, hope glinting in his eyes for the first time.

“Really, for real,” Clint takes his face in his hands and kisses him on the nose, because how could he not, when Phil’s got that hopeful expression on his face?

“I am sorry, Clint,” Phil says, expression wary and hopeful at the same time. Clint doesn’t need to ask for what.

“Are you going to tell me just what it is that you are so terrified of?”

“I may have slight abandonment issues.”

Clint throws his head back and laughs, because  _ this man.  _ “You have a gift for understatement, Agent Coulson.”

“Jason is my stepdad,” Phil grits out, like every word is a battle to push out. The information isn’t surprising. Clint figured as much. “My biological father left my mother when I was five.”

“Left?”

“When I got to the FBI, I tracked him down. He has another family in Wisconsin,” he explains. There are entire pieces of Phil’s psyche falling into place in Clint’s mind.

“I am sorry, Phil.”

“Yeah,” Phil says, addressing his hands.

“Did you meet him?”

Something difficult passes over Phil’s face, and it takes him a moment to find his voice, “Yeah,” he replies, “he is happy. Two kids. His wife is nice. Their eldest is in the Marines.”

“Oh, Phil,” Clint wants to embrace Phil, to take him in his arms and hug him tight, but he is certain that the affection will ruin Phil’s fragile emotional control. He does decide however that even Agent Coulson can put up with a little handholding. He takes Phil’s hand in his, rubbing his thumb comfortingly.

“After we – erm – fought,” Phil says, and Clint can see the strain visible in the line of his shoulders, can understand how hard Phil’s working not to meet Clint’s eyes, to not slump against him, “I got back into therapy.”

Agent Coulson going to therapy sounds… yeah, Clint has no frame of reference for that.

“Phil,” Clint turns around on the bed, on leg folded under him and the other one dangling along the side of the bed, foot touching the floor, “I want to spend the rest of my life convincing you that  _ I  _ am here to stay. If you will let me.”

Phil looks up at him, and for the first time in this conversation, something like hope sparkles in his eyes, “I am not going to be a perfect boyfriend.”

“No,” Clint agrees. “And for the record, I never expected one. I just need you to  _ talk  _ to me when you get scared instead of running for the hills.”

“I can do that,” Phil looks shy, his cheeks red. Clint will be damned if it isn’t the most perfect thing he has ever seen. 

“Well, how about that, Agent Coulson? We just had a mature conversation about feelings.”

Phil laughs, his head thrown back, the sound musical in the silence of the house. Clint kisses him then, because how could he not. He pounces on Phil to capture his lips between his teeth, and he will swear to every God there is, that Phil’s mouth against his feels like coming home.

*


	11. Chapter 10

That first night back together, they fall asleep in the same bed, fully clothed. Everything is perfectly PG and appropriate because Phil’s arm is in a sling, and Clint needs to have a conversation with Barnes before they do anything more serious.  Plus, even if Barnes weren’t in the picture, Clint isn’t getting Coulson’s pants off in his mother’s house. That’s just – no.

They get back in touch with SHIELD after the mandatory twelve hour radio silence window. Sitwell arranges their extraction, and they have an ETA on a jet with a medical evac team. There’s color back in Tasha’s cheeks after a good night’s sleep, but she needs to get to SHIELD medical for a full sitrep.

When they say goodbye to Phil’s parents, there is a knowing spark in Judith’s eyes. Clint finds himself smiling back at her.

“You must come back,” she whispers into his ear when he hugs her goodbye, “bring him if you must,” she gestures at Phil, “but really, I’ll be thrilled with just you.”

Clint laughs, and he embraces her again over Phil’s puzzled expression.

*

Clint doesn’t know what to say to Barnes.

They aren’t exactly exclusive. They hadn’t had  _ that _ conversation yet. They were hardly anything. They were – stress relief. Clint maybe a reluctant, but nevertheless, true member of the  _ some asshole messed with my brain and gave me unwanted guilt  _ club, so he understands Barnes in a way that Steve cannot. That’s pretty much the beginning and the end of their relationship. Barnes is very attractive, obviously incredibly dangerous, and carries a bucketload of issues.

Fuck if that weren’t Clint’s type.

He texts Barnes to meet him at their usual diner, and spends the entire day anxiously fretting about it. He didn’t  _ cheat _ on Barnes, he is sure; and he is really glad to be back in a happy place with Phil.

But Barnes has grown on him.

Nat had once told him that he could never have simple, uncomplicated sex with anyone.

“So,” Clint tells Barnes over pancakes, “we have to stop sleeping together.”

Barnes’ face falls for the shortest fraction of a second before he schools his expression back to  _ bored and feeling murdery. _

“Okay,” he says sounding nonchalant, but damn it, Clint’s learned to read Barnes a little bit.

“I had – erm, have – this boyfriend,” Clint tries to explain.

“Agent Coulson of SHIELD,” Barnes says, surprising Clint. “The guy Steve signed those cards for.”

“You knew?”

“Sometimes you said Phil in your sleep,” Barnes says. “I asked Edwin.” He flushes, looking away. 

Amazingly, to Tony’s utter delight, JARVIS had declared Barnes his favorite human. Bucky was the only person allowed to call him by his namesake’s first name.

Clint swallows down the guilt, trying to keep it together. He didn’t anticipate how much it would hurt to let Barnes go, “I am sorry – I didn’t – I maybe should have – I should have said something.”

Barnes smiles a little sadly at him, “It’s okay. Are you – erm”

“Back with him? Yeah.”

“I was gonna say happy. Are you happy?”

Clint can’t help but smile, remembering Phil’s hand closing over his coffee mug this morning, “I am. I think I am, though I would be happier if I knew you were going to be happy too.”

Barnes takes his hand in his across the table. “I am doing better,” Barnes smiles. “Even though I will miss your ass,” Barnes gives him a once-over, and Clint laughs, “Stark asked me to sleep with Wilson, but his ass ain’t as nice as yours.”

Clint bursts out laughing. God, he was going to miss this dumbass.

“Don’t let Sam hear you say that,” he says. “Oh, Barnes.”

“Shut your trap and buy me break-up milkshakes.”

*

He has Phil back, who fits into the Phil shaped conspicuous hole in Clint’s life so seamlessly that the team barely notice the difference. 

Natasha knows without either Phil or Clint telling her, which is pretty standard for Natasha. Stark is oblivious as ever, but it’s too much of a pipe dream to hope that Cap wouldn’t notice. 

The next time they train, Steve puts him through a tougher than usual drill. When Clint is trying to catch his breath by not panting up a lung, Steve corners him beside the mat.

“Need a medic?” Steve is  _ such _ a jerk.

“How is he?” Clint asks instead, because he ain’t getting in a shovel-talk-fight-match with Captain America. For one thing, he would lose. For another, it would break Phil’s heart.

“Fine,” Steve replies, handing Clint a water bottle. “He didn’t tell me anything, but he’s pretty easy to read. He used to come back with his  _ just got laid  _ grin after meeting you, but he looked like a kicked puppy yesterday. So I  _ think  _ I know what’s going on, but I am still gonna ask.”

“Charming,” Clint rolls his eyes. 

“What did you do, Barton?”

“Phil and I are – erm, back together?” he shrugs. “And I told him. You know? That we – um – needed to stop.”

“Was there cheating?” Cap asks in his _about to throw a punch_ voice. 

“No!” Clint corrects immediately, mainly because Cap punches  _ really _ hard. “We weren’t like that! Not exclusive, I mean. I didn’t – I would never hurt him like that!”

It takes a full minute, but slowly Cap’s  _ you hurt my Bucky  _ face is replaced by one of friendly sympathy. “Good,” he says, seemingly mollified. “I can’t say I am happy for you and Phil honestly, so I will just say I am glad you have been a great support to Bucky. And that I want you to be happy.”

_ This man.  _ Clint rolls his eyes.  _ Seriously, this man. _

“Besides,” Steve continues, “Tony wants to set Sam up with someone, so maybe I will send  _ them  _ on a date.”

Jesus Christ on a cracker. Stark was a fucking  _ menace _ .

*

He debates internally for a long time, but he sends Stark a text.

_ Don’t let Steve set Barnes up with Wilson. _

He gets a reply ten seconds later. 

_ TS: Okay. _

Clint knows Tony, so he starts counting down from twenty five. Before he has hit  _ eleven,  _ his phone beeps with a text. 

_ TS: You poor thing. Did you catch feelings for two men who can kill you in your sleep? _

Clint replies with the middle finger emoji.

*

Phil takes him to Portland for a weekend.

This time, there is no Natasha to bleed out on the living room carpet and Clint gets to meet Molly, Phil’s more-badass oncologist sibling. They celebrate Jason and Judith’s wedding anniversary, and Phil shows off all of his childhood haunts.

Being with family – being accepted and included – feels frighteningly normal. Judith is practically giddy with joy. Every eyebrow raise she levies at Phil seems to say  _ I told you so.  _ Clint is delighted. She seems unfazed by the change in relationship status between Clint and Phil.

“So, did you boys work things out then?” she asks, just as Phil is taking a sip of wine at dinner the first night of their stay. Because he is Phil Coulson, he doesn’t sputter wine into a glass, but it’s a near thing.

Clint sort of really loves Phil’s mom.

“I maintain that Phil was a dumbass, Judith,” Clint smirks. He understands that he is allowed to do this now. He gets to tease Phil sitting in his parents’ dining room, eating their food, with Phil’s knee brushing his under the table.

“I am sure you’re right, dear.”

Phil throws a breadstick at her, and it barely,  _ barely,  _ keeps from becoming a food fight.

*

There is an attic filled with boxes of Captain America merchandise. There are Bucky Barnes  _ sheets  _ on Phil’s bed, which makes things very weird until he blows Clint against the wall.

“We’re never doing this again,” Clint pants, his fingers buried in Phil’s hair.

Phil pulls off with a pop, looking up at Clint, his expression debauched, “I am going to have objections to that.”

“Not the blowjobs,” Clint protests, cause he may actually  _ die _ if Phil cuts him off, “We are  _ not  _ having sex with a cartoon Bucky Barnes staring at us.”

“On the contrary,” Phil raises one elegant eyebrow from his spot on the floor, “you’ll see that we are. Right at this moment.”

Clint would fight that, but Phil starts doing  _ that thing  _ with his tongue again so he shuts the fuck up and lets the man blow him.

Later, as Phil presses bites down Clint’s chest, Clint can’t remain silent. “Is this some kind of caveman response thing? Screwing me on Bucky Barnes sheets?”

Phil goes very carefully still, which is a tell by itself.

“Holy shit, it is! You’re jealous!”

Phil doesn’t scoff, or brush his accusation away which tells Clint that he is right.

“Phil,” he rolls over to lie on top of Coulson, “You realize you’re being ridiculous?”

Phil’s ears turn red, but his eyes start crinkling at the corners the way they do when he is embarrassed. 

“Jesus Phil, I ended things with Barnes,” Clint explains. “There’s nothing between us anymore. There was nothing at any time. We were – I dunno what we were. Fuckbuddies, I guess. I was mad at you, and – well.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

“Actually, I am angling for something else here,” Clint says. “Do you remember that mission with those wannabe alt-righters? They wanted Steve to support their manifesto of bigotry?”

“Yeah,” Phil agrees, looking wary like he already knows where Clint is going with this. “That’s the night you met Barnes.”

“Yeah, but,” Clint takes a deep breath. “I came to your place first. That night, I mean. Before I went to the bar.”

He hears Coulson’s sharp exhale, and he knows he is right. He knows that Phil’s understood what Clint’s asking him.

“I knew the touchpad was warm!”

“Your security system works, by the way,” Clint tries to lighten the mood.

“Jeremy Reinhart,” Phil explains, looking away from Clint. His ears are practically glowing red now. 

Clint is stunned speechless. The silence stretches uncomfortably for a few heartbeats, and Clint realizes he is still trying to find his words.

“Say something,” Phil mumbles, burying his face into Clint’s chest.

“How did you even – where did – how did you meet him?”

“Stark introduced us,” Phil mutters. “Said it might help me get over you.”

Clint is going to fucking  _ kill  _ Tony Stark. He’s gonna skewer the man with his arrows and simply risk the wrath of Cap.

“Did it?” he asks Phil.

“It made me realize that I preferred the real thing,” Phil says. Clint tugs him up the bed by his arms and kisses him, feral and possessive. 

“You have the real thing,” he grits out against Phil’s lips. “Never again.”

“I swear.”

“I can’t believe Stark set you up with movie Hawkeye!” Clint laughs, seeing the humor in it. “Tasha says he looks like me, but he’s fake blonde.”

“He’s definitely fake _ something _ ,” Phil murmurs. “I am sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Phil,” Clint promises. “He is  _ very hot. _ ”

“ _ You  _ are very hot,” Phil flushes, pleased that Clint’s not mad. “He doesn’t have your arms.”  
  
“You and your kinks,” Clint laughs, and moves against Phil’s hips, making them both realize that round two is very much on the cards.

They stop thinking about Jeremy Reinhart after that.

*


	12. Chapter 11

“I want to have a house meeting,” Phil comes up to Clint’s table during lunch in the SHIELD cafeteria and says without so much as a by your leave.

“Hello to you too, Agent Coulson,” Clint smiles at him, taking a bite of his apple. 

Phil sits down in the chair across from Clint, straightening his lapels, looking the very picture of Agent Coulson, if it weren’t for the strain lines around his mouth. “House Meeting,” he repeats.

“We don’t live together, Phil,” Clint points out.

Coulson doesn’t even blink at the use of his first name. In the middle of SHIELD. With rookie agents in earshot. 

_ Must be serious, then,  _ Clint concludes.

“Let’s live together, and then have a house meeting.”

Clint isn’t thrown for long. After all, he is fluent in C _ oulson-ese,  _ so he simply asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I decided that we needed a house meeting.”

“And what would we talk about, at this house meeting?”

Well-cloaked terror in blue eyes meet Clint’s over the table, “We will talk about potentially living together and throwing a dinner party.”

Clint sets his apple down.

“I don’t even know where to start with that,” Clint admits.

“Start by saying yes.”

“I will get to the dinner party in a minute,” Clint tells him after taking several deep breaths. “But why are we moving in together?”

“I don’t own enough plates for the dinner party,” Phil explains like it’s obvious and Clint should have known that.

Clint pushes his lunch tray away, cause  _ what even. _

“Phil,” he says. “Hear me out. Radical idea, I know, but how about we just don’t have a dinner party? Who asked for a dinner party?”

Phil looks like Clint kicked his puppy. His shoulders slump the barest inch, he settles back against the chair a little bit, and for an instant, his expression is sad before he schools it back to  _ bored government bureaucrat.  _

“It’s what couples do,” Phil says, with all the confidence of a teenager who googled  _ Ten Ways to Show Your Boyfriend You’re In It for Real. _

“Jesus Christ,” Clint breathes out, the pieces falling into place, “Agent Coulson, have you been reading Cosmo?”

Phil flushes, and throws Clint a pointed, huffy glare, but remains quiet.

“Phil,” Clint prods.

“Clint.” 

“Phil, honey,” he leans closer so he can whisper, and nobody need know that badass Agent Coulson is  _ terrified  _ right now, “we don’t have to throw a dinner party for me to know you’re serious about us.”

“Really?” 

“Really,” Clint reassures him. “I mean, who’d we invite besides the team? We can’t  _ afford  _ to feed Steve or Thor, and Tony doesn’t eat solid foods on most days.”

Phil’s eyebrows rise up a centimeter, an indication that he hadn’t gotten that far into the logistics of feeding the Avengers.

“Phil,” Clint says again, brushing his shin with his foot under the table, “Neither of us can cook.”

“You can.”

“Not on this scale, no,” he smiles at Phil. “Baby, you’re very sweet for offering, but I am not going to leave you if we don’t hit whatever milestones you’ve got listed and researched in your head.”

“I am sorry,” Phil says, looking sheepish.

“Don’t be,” Clint says quietly, rubbing a thumb over Phil’s palm for just an instant before Phil lets go of his hand, “It’s very thoughtful. But I promise that I won’t walk away again. I am sorry too, honey.”

Even six months ago, Agent Coulson wouldn’t have entertained the idea of the pair of them alluding to their relationship outside their apartment. But here, they were in the middle of the SHIELD cafeteria, Clint calling him baby and honey, playing footsie under the table, trying to coax Phil’s shoulders back to their normal height. 

Nat drops into the chair beside Phil a few minutes later, and observes the thick silence hanging in the air. With no segue, she starts making barf noises. The remnant strains of tension in Phil’s muscles let go, and he sits back, trying to resist laughing, taking the pudding cup out of Clint’s tray.

_ Yeah,  _ Clint thinks to himself,  _ it’s definitely true love. _

*

They don’t ever officially move in together. 

There is no exchange of keys. There are no movers, no hauling of furniture. 

One day, several months later, Steve asks Clint if he can use Phil’s bread maker.

That’s when Clint realizes that an awful lot of Phil’s things are scattered around his flat. He opens his closet to reach for a clean vest and bumps into Coulson’s suits hanging neatly in their garment bags. His blanket is on their bed and his sneakers are piled dirtily outside their bathroom. Every single pair of Phil’s socks are lying in the laundry hamper. 

They have already had the  _ oh so the laundry hamper isn’t actually invisible, you just like dumping your clothes on my floor  _ fight. At the time, Clint hadn’t realized this meant they had practically moved in together. 

Clint smiles to himself and goes to help Steve use the bread maker.

*

Clint comes home one evening in December, hauling bags of Christmas gifts to find two international assassins on his couch, eating leftover lasagna from his fridge.

“Ugh Romanoff,” he says, because he  _ just  _ vacuumed the entire goddamn house, “Get your feet off the coffee table.”

“Ever since you got domesticated,” Nat says, “you are  _ no fun.” _

Barnes is busy stuffing his face with Clint’s supreme Italian cooking. Clint is  _ not  _ thinking about the last time Barnes was naked on that couch.

He goes into the cabinet under the sink to hide Phil’s gift behind the cleaning supplies. It’s the  _ one place  _ in their apartment that neither Steve nor Phil will ever look in. Because neither of them has picked up a mop  _ once  _ since they moved into this place.

He brings the rest of the presents back to the living room, along with his wrapping supplies. There’s no point in hiding anything from the Russian Espionage Olympic team sitting on his couch. They probably already know.

“What are you two doing here?” 

“Steve’s asking Tony to marry him,” Barnes supplies, not even looking up from his ongoing battle of the forks with Natasha. She wins.

“We’re staying clear of the tower until the celebratory sex is over,” Nat explains. Clint can swear these two are turning into peas in a pod who finish each other’s sentences.

“Bastard finally did it, huh?”

“Hear, hear!” Barnes says, his tone completely flat and deadpan.

The entire team (sans Tony) is invested in this proposal. Steve has spent  _ months  _ obsessing over the perfect ring, the perfect way to propose, the perfect clothes and careened between extremes of  _ oh shit he is never going to say yes  _ to  _ holy fuck we are gonna be engaged. _

He’s been a right pain in the ass.

“I thought he was gonna take him on one of those air balloon things,” Clint asks. “Please tell me Steve dropped that idea. They’re not up in a balloon in  _ December,  _ right?”

“Nah,” Barnes says stuffing more lasagna in his mouth, “Steve’s asking him in the workshop.”

There really is no accounting for taste, but he figures Steve is the kind of weirdo perfect for Stark’s brand of crazy.

“Anyway,” Barnes says. “I need your help.”

“Whatever for?”

“Have to get a stupid monkey suit, don’t I? Best Man.”

“Ugh,” Clint groans. An Avengers wedding means they’ve all got to dress up. But, Phil in a tux…. 

“Exactly.”

“Fine, we will go,” Clint promises. “But let’s wait for Stark to decide on a theme. He may have us get white suits as a really tasteless joke or something.”

Phil comes home to see them wrestling on the couch for the wrapping paper. ( _ You are wrapping it wrong! No I am not!)  _

“Agent Romanoff,” Phil raises an eyebrow at the spectacle, “I am used to finding a Russian assassin groping my boyfriend’s ass, but it’s usually you doing the groping.”

Clint springs away from Bucky like he’s been shocked, but Phil merely smiles like he’s joking.

“I was not-“ he begins.

“We were not,” Barnes cuts in.

Phil rolls his eyes at the pair of them and goes into the bedroom. When he emerges again in a t-shirt and some comfy pants, Clint can’t resist but ask, “I am worried that you’re not jealous. I should be worried, right? Why are you not jealous?”

“Should I be jealous?”

“We weren’t doing anything, I swear,” Clint says, and he doesn’t know why his heart is beating so loudly against his ribs, he doesn’t know why he is so scared, “Phil, I promise-“

Phil kisses him, slow and sweet and long and possessive.

“Barton,” he says against his lips, “if I got jealous every time I came home to find an assassin groping your ass, we would never get anything done.”

“He has a point,” Nat snorts without any dignity.

“Shut up, you,” Clint flips her off and scoots closer to Barnes to let Phil sit beside him. “Did you hear about Mr. and Mr. Stark America?”

“I gotta put  _ that _ on their present now,” Barnes interjects, as Phil nods.

Phil takes in the scattered pieces of wrapping paper, the roll of scotch tape in Barnes’ hair and the bag of presents by Barnes side. 

“This seems like quite the operation,” he says, dropping a kiss into Clint’s hair before snuggling closer. 

“I went a little nuts with the Christmas gifts this year,” Clint tells him, and sees the man scanning the room for this own present. “I hid yours already. Stop looking.”

“We have to go out again to get them a wedding present,” Phil points out. 

“Cap’s angling for a Christmas day wedding, so we really don’t,” Clint answers. 

“They set a date?” Barnes asks.

“They set a date and the date is  _ Christmas?”  _ Phil asks.

“I am actually surprised Stark let Jesus have all the attention on one day of the year for so long,” Clint points out, shucking more ribbon at Barnes’ head. 

“It’s probably down to Steve than Tony,” Barnes explains. “Steve  _ loves  _ Christmas.”

They sit around the living room, gossiping about their teammates into late in the evening, that by the time they wrap up, it’s time for dinner. Clint gets up to cook something, and they all chip in to help. 

It will be a while before he admits it to himself, but watching Phil laugh his eye sparking laugh at Barnes allows something warm to settle at the base of his stomach.

*

Clint is exhausted. He literally just got back from a mission in Bumfuck, Serbia. In December.

He’s cold, he’s hungry and he really wants to get some sleep.

He  _ would,  _ if Steve’s stupid face weren’t staring at him from his bed.

To be precise, from his pillows.

Phil seems to have purchased Captain America pillowcases. And bedsheets, that have the shield logo on them.

Clint is tired, but not too tired to be unable to take a picture and send it to Tony. (Tony replies instantly. 

_ TS: you better not have sex on top of my boyfriend _

_ TS: Fuck. Fiance.  _

_ TS: I keep forgetting that he is my fiance now. Is that bad?  _

_ TS: Don’t tell him I said that.) _

He throws his phone in the direction of the table and collapses face first on America’s abs. Tries to sleep.

After five minutes, he gets back up and strips the bed, pillowcases and all. He lumps the whole mess into a ball of laundry and walks out to the living room. He dumps it all on the couch, since Phil will be sleeping on it tonight. 

Muttering to himself, he goes back inside and falls asleep on his bed. 

He wakes to the press of Phil’s lips on his forehead.

“Go’way.”

“Sweetheart,” Phil whispers, kissing his cheek. “If you’d wake up for a minute, I can make the bed.”

Memory comes crashing down on him, and he sits up, rubbing at his eyes. He’s fallen asleep on the fitted sheet, and the whole thing looks sad and dusty under him. They don’t really clean the house often enough.

“Ugh, Phil.”

“I tried to get back early, but there was an issue in Monaco,” Phil tells him, getting fresh sheets from the linen cupboard.

“Put those away,” he grunts out, irrationally angry and  _ just so tired.  _

“I can tell that you’re mad.”

“Fucking sheets, Phil, what the fuck,” he grumbles, getting up to go use the bathroom. He leaves Phil standing there, with linens in his hand and looking lost. When he comes back, the bed is made with their plain blue sheets instead of Captain  _ call me Steve  _ America.

“I am sorry,” Phil says when Clint comes back in the room. He sounds like he is saying it just cause you never go wrong with  _ I am sorry.  _ It’s a classic move. Clint’s used it himself many times.

“Don’t give me that,” Clint tells him. “You’re just saying that cause you don’t want to fight.”

“That,” Phil nods. “But also cause I  _ am sorry?” _

“Are you asking me, Phil?”

“No, no, I am sorry,” he sounds so flustered, and so unlike Agent Coulson. If Clint weren’t so tired, he would take a moment to appreciate it, but he is just so  _ exhausted.  _ And  _ angry. _

“Is Steve home?”

“Yeah,” Phil nods. “He’s in his room, why?”

“I have put your favorite new sheets on the couch,” he tells him. “I am sure you will be comfortable there. If Steve decides to fuck off to the tower, you can maybe go and sleep in Captain America’s bed.”

The clock on the bedside table ticks. The silence stretches.

“I don’t think I deserved that,” Phil says, sounding hurt.

Clint is already collapsing into the pillows. As the darkness takes him, he knows he is going to regret whatever this is when morning comes.

*


	13. Chapter 12

When Clint wakes up, the couch is empty. The Captain America sheets are gone, and so is Phil. 

He ignores the striking gripes of distress making themselves known at the base of his stomach, and tries to imagine the tight set of Phil’s shoulders.

Phil always stiffens up in casually posed ease when he is angry. Maybe Phil’s angry with him.

But then, Clint remembers those stupid sheets, and how Phil’s  _ never  _ going to get over his stupid hero-worship of Captain America. Of  _ Steve.  _ Of Clint’s dorky roommate who can’t talk to a beautiful woman without tripping all over his words.

He shakes his head, resolving to  _ not fucking give in  _ this time.

Clint has the day off, so he doesn’t go into SHIELD. He figures he needs time to cool off, and for Phil to maybe come and find him. If they fight it out properly, they can have themselves some lovely make-up sex.

He spends the day cleaning the apartment, and then going over to the tower to use the gym. He finds Steve going to town on a punching bag.

“Hey,” he greets, “Everything okay?”

Steve merely grunts in answer, going back to settle a score with the poor punching bag.

“Figured you’d be neck deep in wedding planning by now,” he prods, “Didn’t Barnes mention something about a suit fitting?”

“The wedding’s off,” Steve says carefully through clenched teeth. The bag goes flying across the room, and Clint appreciates the graceful arch it makes through the air before landing in a slump. “Damn! God damn it!”

“Easy, big guy,” Clint tells him, trying to make himself seem non-threatening. 

“Jarvis,” Steve says, slumping to sit on the floor, his elbows resting on his knees, “would you – can you – please just order another one and charge it to me?”

“Captain Rogers,” Jarvis says, “Sir’s blocked me from charging any expense to your card.”

Steve’s ears turn red, a dangerous sign that’s sent Nazis scattering across Europe through the decades.

“Buy the damn thing and tell me how much it costs, and I’ll just start leaving cash inside his goddamn armor,” Steve curses, but accepts the bottle of water Clint hands to him.

“A sound strategy, Captain,” Jarvis says deadpan. “Clearly better than going down to the workshop and simply talking to him.”

Steve glares at the ceiling. Clint tries not to laugh.

“Leave him alone, Jay,” Clint chuckles. “Tony and you fighting about money, Cap?”

“I am being sensible about money,” Steve gulps down his water, twisting the bottom of the bottle with more vehemence than necessary, “He is being – well, I can’t tell you what he is being.” He gets to his feet. “Tell Phil there’s no need for him to hunt down what I asked him for. The wedding’s off.”

He undoes his gloves and walks away, looking morose and miserable.

Clint decides to go to the most knowledgeable person in the tower to get some answers.

*

“Stark’s company has something called a pre-nup requirement,” Barnes tells Clint over grilled cheese in the common kitchen. “Steve’s ready to sign it. Stark says he won’t marry him if he signs it.”

Clint sets his sandwich down, and stares at Barnes.

“Most couples would fight about this the other way around,” he points out.

“Steve and Tony aren’t most couples.”

“Huh,” Clint admits with a nod. “Tell me you’re planning something to fix this, or we’ve got ourselves a winner for the shortest engagement ever.”

“I have got something in the works.”

“Locking the two of them in a closet and giving Dummy the keys does not count,” Clint points his fork at Barnes.

“Okay, I got nothing.”

*

Phil doesn’t come home even after midnight. Clint calls Natasha who tells him without prompting that Phil isn’t on the Helicarrier, and  _ you really screwed up this time, huh, little Hawke? _

For the record, Clint didn’t screw up.

There’s just a  _ lot  _ of crap in Clint’s apartment, and most of it has Steve’s face on it. And all of it is  _ expensive _ crap _.  _ Usually in plastic wrap that Phil  _ can never  _ open. The one time Clint tried to open a pack of cards, he was given the pleasure of listening to a long monologue about what mint in box means.

Okay so maybe he is a little bit jealous of the way Phil sees Steve. The way Phil stands a little straighter when Steve walks into a room. The way he flushes when Steve defends Agent Coulson’s value to Fury. 

So Clint is jealous. Screw him.

It’s just – it’s easier to keep Steve and his perfection out of their relationship when Phil leaves it at the door. But bringing those stupid sheets into their bedroom? 

No. Clint’s not backing down this time.

*

He goes back to work on Monday, and behaves as normally as he possibly can during their daily debrief. 

They must seem perfectly benign to anyone observing, (well, to anyone who’s not Tasha), but Clint’s well-versed in reading the tautness of Coulson’s shoulders, the stiff way in which he is holding his neck. The careful ease in his posture.

Phil’s mad.

No, not just mad. He is  _ furious. _

Well, that’s just fine then. See if Clint cares.

(He cares a lot.)

Phil hands Clint a blue dossier, and turns back to the projector without another word. Clint flips through, his eyes glazed in anger before he can take in the words.

“You’re sending me to Novosibirsk?” 

“There’s a nuclear physicist there that’s caught the interest of the Iranians,” Phil explains, still focused on pulling up a presentation on his laptop.

“What do you want me to do about it? Shoot an arrow at him?”

“Guard him,” Phil says, his tone dry, giving nothing away. “It’s a stakeout mission. Watch him, guard him, report on who he meets. Surveillance only.”

“Surveillance alone?”

“You’ll be taking Agent Matthews with you.”

Clint  _ hates  _ Agent Matthews. He has a crush on Phil, and makes no secret of it. He once flirted with Coulson in the middle of the range with Clint watching. Clint  _ hates  _ his fucking guts.

Come to think of it, Clint isn’t a fan of Siberia in December, either.

Stakeouts probably mean he’s going to have to sit in the cold, watching a very boring scientist meet other boring people. For hours on end.

Well,  _ fuck you too, Phil. _

*

While he is packing his go bag in the SHIELD locker room, Tony steps inside carrying his improved auto-quiver.

“I changed the rotation algorithm,” he says, dropping the quiver on top of Clint’s bag. “Like we talked about. Treat her like a lady, Barton.”

“I always do,” Clint replies. “You better not have changed my arrangement.”

“What am I, an idiot?” Tony’s learned the hard way that when Clint counts the number of explosive arrows that are lined up after the grappling ones, he means it. “Blueberry?”

Clint shakes his head in refusal, going back to stuffing a parka along with his fatigues. Violently.

“Just a thought,” Stark says, popping a berry in his mouth. “Have you tried groveling?”

“Stay out of it.”

“He is sending you to Siberia in December,” Stark points out. “Clearly, it’s a sign of Agent Agent meaning business.”

“It’s abuse of power,” Clint grits out, “and stay out of it!”

“I have read Dr. Murie’s work,” Stark continues like he didn’t hear Clint at all, “the guy is a nutcase. He is a sitting duck, and Agent’s sending you duck watching.”

He sounds a little more gleeful than the situation warrants, so Clint feels no regret to snap back at him, “Got Steve to not sign a pre-nup yet?”

The bag of blueberries barely misses his head while he makes his exit.

*

Russia  _ sucks _ .

*

When Clint returns stateside three weeks later, Phil’s still not talking to him, Steve’s moved out of the tower to live in Clint’s apartment again, and Tony is fucking unbearable to deal with. 

Within twenty four hours of being back, Clint misses Novosibirsk’s snow and the blissful lack of drama.

*

He hates his empty apartment. He hates his bedroom, and how the pillows no longer smell like Phil. 

He takes his pathetic self to the tower, hoping to garner some pity out of Barnes, but when he gets there, he finds Steve all over Barnes’ lap on the couch.

“Goddamn it, Steve,” Clint grumbles. “You’ve had him for three weeks. Get off. It’s my turn.”

“I need him more than you,” Steve mumbles into Barnes’ lap, his voice muffled by Barnes’ thigh. “I ruined  _ everything _ with Tony.”

“Get in fucking line, Rogers,” Clint grabs Steve’s ginormous bicep and tries to yank him off of Barnes. It feels like he is trying to pull a steam engine off course. “I am the pathetic one.”

“I think you’re both pathetic,” Barnes tells them. “Shut up and sit down, Barton.”

Clint collapses beside Barnes, curling up against him. The man is warm, even if Clint gets his hips nearly crushed by the weight of Captain America.

“Steve, come on, share the cuddling soldier,” he prods at Steve who groans, but good-naturedly moves to Bucky’s other side. Barnes stretches both arms along the sides of the couch, and wraps them around both Steve and Clint.

“Why do you get a piece?” Steve mumbles into Barnes’ chest. “I’ve been waiting for him since nineteen fucking forty five.”

Captain America’s cursing. Things must be  _ dire. _

“Yeah,” Clint grumbles, hearing the smile in Steve’s voice, “but I gave him his first blowjob in the twenty first century. Blowjob squatters rights.”

“That’s not a thing,” Steve mutters. Because he is actually  _ five years old  _ when he is upset, he adds “You’re stupid.”

“You’re  _ both  _ stupid,” Barnes retorts, “For god’s sake.”

“Why doesn’t he listen?” Steve complains, sitting up in a huff. “If I sign the pre-nup, we can assure everyone I am not in this for his money. How does he react? He reacts by not letting me  _ pay _ for anything!”

“Is that why I found eighty dollars behind the TV in the den?” Clint asks.

“I broke another punching bag,” Steve shrugs. “God, Tony’s such a jerk sometimes.”

“Oh poor you,” Clint whines, “Your rich billionaire boyfriend wants to marry you without a pre-nup. Fuck’s sake Steve, I raised a –  _ reasonable –  _ fucking reasonable objection to having your face all over my bed, and Phil sent me to Siberia!”

“I don’t understand that sentence,” Steve says slowly, “and I am not sure if I want you to explain.”

“Coulson bought Captain America bedsheets,” Barnes beats Clint to the punch, running his fingers comfortingly through Clint’s hair, “Barton accused him of wanting to sleep with you.”

Steve turns shocked eyes to Clint, who flushes red. 

“Not exactly,” Clint defends. “I accused him of wanting to sleep in your bed.”

Steve looks at Clint like he is the biggest idiot on the planet.

“In my defense,” Clint starts, but then reconsiders cause he has no idea how that sentence ends.

“You’re such an idiot,” Steve tells him matter of factly. “Phil loves you.”

“In my defense,” Clint tries again. “He owns a lot of crap with your face on it.”

“Clint,” Steve pinches the bridge of his nose with two fingers, “Coulson loves the idea of Captain America. He doesn’t love me, particularly. He loves what Cap stands for. Cap’s the reason why he became a Ranger. He finds it inspiring. It’s got nothing to do with how he feels about me.”

“It’s so creepy when you refer to yourself in the third person,” Barnes laughs, holding Clint tighter to him. 

Clint thinks about what Steve’s saying. He’s not entirely right, Clint knows, but he’s not entirely wrong either. 

Irrespective of whatever is the nature of relationship between Steve and Barnes, historians have speculated on their sexualities. Coulson, growing up lonely and queer in Portland, had related to Cap. Cap had meant a lot to him as a teenager. Phil’s uncompromising integrity and moral code, things that Clint loves about him, all have roots, at least partly, in Captain America.

Steve Rogers may not be like the propaganda Cap in many ways, but he  _ is  _ in all the important ways. 

Clint sniffles his regret into Barnes’ chest. It’s a nice chest. But he misses Phil.

“It’s not too late, you know,” Barnes tells him. “Just find Coulson and apologize. Buy him more sheets with Steve’s mug on them.”

“He’s avoiding me,” Clint explains. “Runs away the minute I corner him at work. Won’t come home at night. I think he is sleeping at Nat’s.”

“He isn’t,” Barnes says too quickly, and immediately goes red. 

Clint doesn’t wanna prod, but Steve sits up and turns around to face Barnes, with a shit eating grin on his face.

“Now, how would you know that, Bucky?” Steve asks beaming.

“Um,” the Winter Solider shifts cagily, avoiding Steve’s eyes. Clint tries not to laugh. 

“Go on,” Clint prompts him. “Tell us how you know who’s been spending the night at Nat’s.”

“Shut up, both of ya.”

*


	14. Chapter 13

“You filed a HR-71?” Phil voice is calm like a deep ocean, but his eyes are raging like an approaching storm.

They are in Fury’s office, standing on opposite sides of Fury’s desk, with the Director between them looking like he could kill both of them if they annoy him any longer.

“Never thought I would see the day,” Fury tells him. “Phil Coulson, in my office over a disciplinary issue.”

“You filed HR-71!” Coulson can’t seem to look away from Clint.

“Agent Coulson,” Fury interrupts when Clint looks like he is going to retort. “I called you here so we can address Barton’s accusation without having to drag a HR rep into this meeting. As both of you know, I despise having to deal with HR on a good day.”

“You filed a HR-71!” Phil states, his inflection flat.

“You were avoiding me!”

“So you decided to misuse SHIELD paperwork?”

“Screw the paperwork for one damn minute, Phil! You sent me on a near useless mission as retaliation for a personal –“

“You filed an abuse of power complaint!”

“- argument in our relationship!” Clint drops into one of the chairs, looking dangerous with his arms folded over his chest.

“It wasn’t a useless mission! Dr. Murie is a dangerous asset –“

“Dr. Murie is an idiot,” Clint snaps. “You  _ and  _ the Iranians know that.”

“We had a legit tip that the Iranians may show up –“

“I would rethink hiring any more analysts sir, cause the ones we have down in intelligence seem to lack –“

“This is blatant disregard for protocol, you went with this to Nick? You filed HR-71 and went to the Director –“

“I had to get you alone in a room, didn’t I –“

“ENOUGH!”

Both of them fall silent, and stare at Fury.

“Do I look like I run the Bachelor? Do I look like I care about the shit the two of you do in your own apartment? Did I warn you or not about bringing your mess into my agency?”

Phil falls into parade rest nearly unconsciously, his body relaxing into  _ commanding officer reaming me out  _ mode like he never left the Rangers. 

“If you recall, Cheese,” Fury snaps at Phil, “I warned you of this. You lost objectivity when Barton is concerned about two minutes after the man walked into the building.”

Phil remains silent, staring at the patch of wall behind Fury’s head. Clint’s fists clench at his sides as he grips the legs of his chair, trying to stay calm.

“Barton,” Fury barks. “You  _ knew  _ Phil’s got a hard-on for the good Captain  _ before _ you hounded him into dating you. Stop throwing a hissy fit about it now. Cheese, the action figures and the posters were weird enough for a man in his forties. Return the goddamn sheets and make Stark buy you the thousand thread count ones from Bed, Bath and Beyond. Those are some damn nice sheets.”

Both Phil and Clint stare at Fury, weirded out by the amount of personal information he seems to know.

“I have told you kids before,” Fury continues. “Just assume I am omniscient. I know  _ everything _ . While you’re at it, get Rogers drunk on mead and throw him at Stark before they set off world war three over a goddamn pre-nup. Swear to God, it’s like running a fuckin’ daycare.”

When they don’t move, Fury shouts, “Are you waiting for an invitation? Get the fuck outta my office.” He tears up Clint’s hastily filled up HR-71. “Oh, and by the way, Hill can punish the both of you for being a pain in my goddamn ass.”

*

They step outside the room, and Phil gently shuts the door behind them. 

Clint glares at him, folding his arms over his chest, leaning against the opposite wall. Phil puts his hands in his pockets, and stands across from Clint. Both of them stay silent, so Clint starts counting down from a thousand in his head.

He’s at eight forty four when Phil breaks the silence.

“I have never gotten written up for abuse of power before,” he states plainly, like he’s enjoying the novelty of something so  _ pedestrian.  _ Phil Coulson, getting written up.

“I am sorry,” Clint blurts out. “For all of it. I didn’t mean to – well, no, I – erm, I definitely meant to talk to you about the merchandise, but I shouldn’t have –“

“I am sorry too,” Phil concedes, eager to get the words out now that both of them are talking. “I bought them on a whim, I didn’t – I wasn’t thinking –“

“I don’t think you want to sleep with Steve,” Clint tells him in a hurry. “I shouldn’t have said that, and you were right, you don’t deserve that.”

“Did you really hate the sheets?”

“Phil,” Clint reaches out, taking Phil’s hand in his, “sweetheart, I was jealous. It was stupid, and it reminded me of Steve, and how you are when he’s around.”

“I can put my collection in storage,” Phil offers. “I want to move in with you, live with you, and build a life with you. A few pieces of merchandise don’t matter. Nothing matters more than you do.”

“I know,” Clint kisses him. “Baby, I know. And you know what, you can dump all the Captain America shit you’ve got in my closet, okay? I don’t care. I want you, so I guess that means I will take you  _ with all your mint in box  _ children’s crap.”

“It’s not all for kids!”

“Phil, you make it worse every time you say they’re collectibles for adults,” Clint laughs against Phil’s lips.

“I am not in love with Captain Rogers,” Phil tells him seriously.

“I know,” Clint agrees. “And I am not in love with Bucky Barnes. Do you believe me?”

“I do,” Phil nods. “I wasn’t sure if you realized it yourself. I didn’t wanna push.”

“You seem to know my heart before I do,” Clint states. “I was confused about Barnes. I wasn’t ready to let go of him, I guess. But I know now. Three weeks away from you made me realize that Barnes isn’t you. All I want is you, Phil. Don’t ever leave me again.”

“I promise.”

“If you’re mad at me,” Clint demands, “you have to stay and fight it out with me. You can’t walk out.”

“I won’t.”

Clint kisses him up against the wall, getting his hands inside the waistband of Phil’s slacks just as Maria Hill comes up the corridor, clearing her throat. 

They spring apart.

“The surveillance cameras in this corridor seem to have developed a sudden and inexplicable fault,” Hill tells them, apropos of nothing. “They will be fixed in the next one hundred seconds. Do you gentlemen want to fix yourself up and follow me?”

Clint straightens the collar of his shirt, while Phil tucks in his loosened dress shirt back inside, tightening his belt. Clint had nearly gotten it off, but  _ damn  _ Maria Hill and her timing.

She leads them into one of the smaller conference rooms down the corridor.

When they step through, Phil is back in Agent Coulson mode.

“Deputy director,” he begins, “this is an unusual circumstance.”

“There’s a first time for everything, Phil,” Hill smiles at him. “Maybe you’ll enjoy being on the other side of the table for a meeting like this.”

“Ma’am,” Clint steps in. “I would like to rescind the HR-71 I filed against Agent Coulson. Pursuant to regulations, I would like to withdraw it immediately.”

“Fury tore that up already, Barton,” Hill says, settling into the seat at the head of the long conference table, gesturing at the others to take a seat as well. “The HR-71 wasn’t even considered seriously.”

Clint relaxes, and looks at Phil but he is still seems lost in thought.

“Having said that,” Hill continues. “Barton, you’re assigned to work in Archives as punishment for misuse of a SHIELD tool designed to prevent abuse of authority. You will be notified when we need you.”

Clint swallows, look at Phil, and then back at Hill. “For how long?”

“Until Mabel decides to release you,” Hill says. Mabel is their veteran archivist, in charge of handling all the paper evidence SHIELD encounters in a routine op. She can find anything from a newspaper clipping to classified CIA files within minutes of a request coming through. 

Phil had recruited her from a public school in Montana. She’s one of Fury’s favorite SHIELD personnel.

She’s also utterly terrifying.

“Right,” Clint nods. “I deserve that.”

“You do,” Hill accedes. “Now, you’re dismissed, Barton.”

“What, no!” There’s no way Clint is leaving Phil to his fate. He may not understand the dynamic between Fury, Phil and Maria entirely, but he knows they’re the backbone of SHIELD. They work together, they know more secrets about the agency than everyone else put together, and they have never had a situation like the one Clint’s thrown them into now.

Maria has never had to discipline Phil before. God, Clint really hopes he didn’t ruin an edge Phil had in his career because of this stupid stunt.

“He can stay, Maria,” Phil interjects. “It’s fine.”

“It’s your funeral,” Maria says. She pulls the console on the desk closer to her and logs in, opening the mission report from Siberia. “When am I getting my ten bucks?”

Clint looks at the pair of them, confused. Phil reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet and hands over a crisp ten dollar bill.

“Back during the dark ages,” Hill explains having spotted Clint’s stunned expression, “when Phil was still denying his feelings for you, I bet Agent Coulson ten bucks that one day, he’ll be so objectively compromised by you that he’ll get pulled up in front of Fury over it.”

“Yes, thank you,” Phil says, looking embarrassed. Clint stares at him, uncomprehending.

“Easiest ten bucks I ever made,” Hill grins, flipping the screen of the console toward them. “Alright, let’s get this over with. Agent Coulson, you knowingly pulled an active Avenger off duty and assigned him to a surveillance op on a priority four target under inhospitable conditions without clear indications of an immediate threat. Do you recognize?”

“I recognize,” Phil nods.

“Wait, hang on,” Clint cuts in, “you said the HR-71 is disregarded!”

“It is,” Phil tells him, his eyes soft. “This isn’t an abuse of authority charge. It’s lack of objectivity. I know which fault Fury’s mad about, and frankly, I don’t blame him.”

“Phil –“

“I haven’t been objective about you for a long time,” Phil says.

“What’s that mean?” Clint asks, fear thumping loud through his veins. “Cause I won’t work with another handler. Neither will Tasha. Or the rest of the team, for that matter.”

“Removing Phil from your chain of command would be punishing you for his mistakes,” Hill says.

“He didn’t make any –“

“Agent Coulson,” Hill continues, her tone reverting to the formal note she’d adopted before, “you willfully and subjectively allowed non-work related factors affect your resource allocation, with regard to mission dated December eight to Novosibirsk, Siberia. Do you recognize?”

“I recognize.”

“Effective immediately,” Hill continues, “for a period of six months beginning today, you will report and justify every decision pertaining to the Avengers Initiative in writing to Director Fury, Nicholas J. A review of all mission pertinent calls made by you in the field as part of the Avengers initiative will be conducted, and calls determined to be suspect will be held up against you in your annual review. Do you accept?”

“I accept,” Phil says. 

“Wait just one goddamn second, Phil’s calls in the field keep the team alive!”

Hill turns to Clint like he is exhausting her just by being in the room. Phil holds Clint’s hand under the table, a quiet sign asking him to calm down.

“Effective today,” Hill remarks, “You are suspended, with pay, for two weeks.”

Coulson’s left shoulder rises an inch. Clint translates that to mean  _ What the ever loving fuck. _

“I didn’t think it was  _ possible _ to suspend Agent Coulson,” Clint says, stunned. “Is it?” He turns to Phil. “I bet there’s a SHIELD reg about that. Can’t suspend him.”

“I don’t believe there are grounds for suspension,” Phil says, his tone so dry like Hill just told him about the weather.

“Take it up with Nick,” Hill smiles. “Barton, contrary to popular belief, Coulson does  _ not  _ actually run SHIELD.”

Clint stares at her. She clears her throat. “Okay, Coulson doesn’t run, maybe, ten percent of SHIELD.”

“Is this going on his record?” Clint asks.

“No,” Hill nods. “Barton, I doubt that Mabel will need you this week. Why don’t you take Agent Coulson home?”

They never actually told SHIELD they were living together now. Neither of them are surprised that Maria knows.

Phil gets to his feet stiffly, “I need to talk to Fury,” he says. “Clint, would you mind meeting me in lot seven?”

Clint shakes his head, still in a daze. Agent Phil Coulson, suspended? 

“I can’t believe you’re doing this to him,” Clint tells Hill once Phil’s left the room. “He didn’t deserve a suspension.”

Hill looks at him pityingly. “Barton,” she says. “Explain to me what you think just happened?”

“You handed Phil a punishment for a silly complaint I made,” he grits out. “You  _ suspended  _ the man who practically runs –“

“Clint,” Hill says shortly. The use of his first name clues him in to shut up, “Phil’s the one who’s been asking for more oversight.”

“What?”

“Long before he started dating you,” Hill clarifies, “He started making noise about being potentially compromised. He tried to get you re-assigned, but when you nearly killed Sitwell on a trial op –“

“ _ That  _ was a trial op?”

“He hates Budapest, thanks to you,” Hill says, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “But when you and Romanoff sabotaged the mission so badly that Coulson had to come and pull a dramatic rescue just because the two of you were behaving like children –“

“Hey!”

“Coulson realized you would never work with another handler,” Hill tells him, sitting back in her chair. “He’s asked Fury to implement some kind of oversight over his decisions in the field. He’s been adamant. He wants to keep you safe, but he also wants to make the best calls for SHIELD.”

“And Fury said no?”

“Fury resisted for as long as he could,” Hill replies. “But the day after you left for Novosibirsk, Phil went to Fury and demanded to be put on probation.”

Clint shudders. Agent Phil Coulson on probation… 

“There  _ must  _ be a rule against that,” Clint guesses.

“There is,” Hill agrees. “The additional review of mission calls – that’s just Fury giving in and granting what Coulson’s asked for years.”

“And the suspension?”

“A way for Fury to make Coulson take a vacation,” Hill laughs. “Keep his ass at home, specialist.” She rises, picking up her tablet and makes to leave. “I don’t need details, but if Coulson so much as logs in to do paperwork, Fury may authorize retaliation.  _ Painful  _ retaliation.”

Clint shoots off a smart, two-fingered salute and goes to find his boyfriend.  
*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more before we're done.


	15. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One last time, folks.   
> If you stuck with me, Clint and Phil for this long, I thank you.

“It’s shameful,” Clint mutters mouth pressed against the flesh of Phil’s thigh.

“What’s that, agent?” Phil gasps, sounding flustered. Clint’s sort of really proud of how flustered Phil sounds. 

Clint takes Phil in hand, stroking him up and down with a firm motion. It’s the first time all night than Clint’s put his hand on Phil’s cock.

Phil groans, nearly arching off the bed.

Clint climbs up the bed, lying on top of Phil to kiss him, Phil’s hard cock trapped between their bodies. 

Clint’s already come three times, but he’s made Phil wait. Made Phil ride that edge of desperation. 

Now, Phil is clawing at Clint’s back, letting his nails drag down the smooth skin, drawing blood.

“What’s shameful?” Phil asks again, clasping Clint tight to his body.

“That we have two entire weeks off. It’s been a whole week since – oh God, Hill threw you out,” Clint explains, biting down at the nape of Phil’s neck, “and we never left the Helicarrier.”

“I won’t tell,” Phil gasps, “fuck – if you won’t.”

“No complaints from me,” Clint presses two fingers inside Phil, who’s so hot and tight and still a little wrecked. 

“Just – fuck, Barton –“

Clint laughs, but obliges, sliding inside and gripping at Phil’s thighs, fucking in hard and fast.

“Oh, God – Clint – please, fuck – harder –“

Clint thinks,  _ don’t need to translate this.  _ Between them, there are no secrets. There’s nothing in the room that Phil can hide behind a suit, or the stiff professionalism of Agent Coulson. When they’re like this, sweat cooling between their bodies, skin flushing with pleasure, there’s nothing Phil can say or do to hide what he is feeling.

Clint angles his hips to make Phil see stars, and when they’re both done, he clutches at him harder than ever, afraid to let go.

*

Clint decides to take Phil home for the second week of his “suspension”.

“Why?” Phil asks, sitting up on the little cot in Clint’s quarters on the carrier.

“For one thing,” Clint answers, trying to pack a bag but Phil’s being very distracting on the cot, naked and sweaty and so ruffled, “we are out of clothes. We also ate through all of my stashed food.”

Clint’s never occupied a space in his life without stashing food in every nook and cranny of it. Phil’s never asked why. He simply inserted himself into Clint’s life and bought along packaged doughnut holes to add to Clint’s running tally of junk food.

Phil groans, and stretches with his arms over his head, sitting up with a wince. 

“Sorry,” Clint flushes, dropping the bag and reaching for him. “I – we – erm, got carried away.”

“We did,” Phil smiles.

“Did I hurt you?”

“Just sore,” Phil promises. “Take me home.”

Clint gets what Phil’s saying. He is putting himself in Clint’s hands, with trust andlove, and every other thing they have ever shared.

Clint takes him home.

*

Phil’s never had two weeks of vacation before. He goes a little stir-crazy, cooped up in their apartment. When Clint gets called out for an Avengers alert, he tries to log in to his SHIELD account and gets locked out so fast, Fury calls him up just to laugh in his ear.

Clint kisses his frown better, and drags him aside for sex up against the wall.

After they get through another round, Clint wakes up to find Phil in the kitchen, pulling out a tray of burned muffins from the oven.

The tops of the muffins are charred black.

Phil frowns, and mutters at the tray, “This is not over.”

He throws the tray in the direction of the sink and starts on another batch, muttering under his breath. 

Phil’s just picked a fight with a tray of muffins, and Clint knows, right there, that he is looking at his  _ forever _ .

He stands in the doorway, just staring at Phil Coulson, carrying the weight of the knowledge in his bones that he will  _ never  _ love another man like this. He is it, the forever love Clint never knew he was waiting for.

*

Three weeks later, Clint watches Steve and Tony stand up at the altar, holding hands and making promises.

Phil is standing between them, ordained at the last minute off the internet to perform the ceremony, his eyes twinkling.

Colonel Rhodes, standing beside Stark, sniffs into a handkerchief. 

“I told this punk in nineteen thirty two that if we were both single by the time we were thirty, I will marry his dumb ass,” Barnes says at the reception, holding a wine glass. “Thank you, Stark, for saving both of us from that terrible fate.”

Clint and Tasha tie rattling cans with ribbons to the back of Steve’s motorbike. Phil spray paints “Newly married” along the side. Rhodey and Pepper set off fireworks. Against the darkening sky, they send off the happy couple on their honeymoon.

Clint takes Phil’s hand in his and pulls him close.

“We should consider doing something along these lines, Agent Coulson,” he breathes against Phil’s mouth.

“Along what lines? What do you mean?”

“I mean - um,” Clint pauses and tries again, “friends and family and crabcakes and toast and cake - those lines.”

“Are you - Barton, are you asking me to marry you?”

“No,” Clint says vehemently, because the last thing he wants right now is a Phil Coulson-sized freakout, “I am not. No. No. No proposal happening at all, so there’s no need for you to freak out.”

“I am not going to -“

“I was just saying,” Clint says. “Asking, actually. Asking for your opinion on where you stand about things like this. Events. Of this nature. That people hold. I am going to stop talking now.”

Phil is doing his eye crinkling thing, the expression that means he is barely holding back laughter.

“How I  _ feel  _ about events like this one?”

“You know what, forget I said anything, it’s not important -”

“Why, Agent Barton,” Phil smiles. “I thought you could read me like a book. That you can translate what I am thinking.”

Phil kisses him, deep and slow and happy and soft, and when they break apart, he cups Clint’s face.

“Translate that, sweetheart.”

Sometimes, words aren’t necessary between them at all. But some things _must_ be said.

“I love you too,” Clint replies, kissing him again. He wonders if Nat knows anyone at City Hall. Phil probably wouldn't like a big ceremony. Clint should file all the paperwork and get a license and just add it into Agent Coulson's inbox at work. 

It may not be someone's dream wedding, but it's theirs. 

It's more than enough.

~ The End ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was a result of a number of things - the surplus of "Coulson is perfect" fics in the fandom, the number of fics where Phil helps Clint with his myriad issues, and I just wanted a different take where Phil's the utter mess. I dunno if I delivered.   
> The other muse that wouldn't leave me alone? Subby, insecure Coulson. 
> 
> Reviews and comments are loved!   
> Come say hi on [tumblr.](https://baffledkingcomposinghallelujah.tumblr.com/)


End file.
